


Save Me

by signifying_nothing



Category: MYNAME (Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS, 투포케이 | 24K
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Multi, Of Many Kinds, Prostitution, Slow Build, eonnie's famous crossovers, slow burn????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signifying_nothing/pseuds/signifying_nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Look, Kim Seokjin's life was pretty great, okay, until this little shrimp showed up and ruined it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet the Fam

**Author's Note:**

> aaaah hahahaha  
> this, this was supposed to just be porn and here we are, no porn and all plot  
> beware for: underage prostitution, violence, and other shit. this is not gonna be a pretty story.  
> (also jfc could i not have thought of a better title sometimes i hate myself)

More often than not, Seokjin came home to one of two things: A, Gunwoo was Working in his bedroom and Kisu was sitting in the living room, probably stitching up some new tailoring project he was working on, or B, Gunwoo was Working in the living room and Kisu was “helping.” Not that either option was a bad one, just that the second one was more exhausting and Seokjin'd had a _really_ long day.

He got lucky that evening: Not only was Gunwoo not Working, but he was in the kitchen, listening to Kisu talk between checking on whatever he was making for dinner. “Seokjinah,” he called, smiling in the way that made his gums show, his eyes curving prettily upwards. Seokjin had always thought Gunwoo was handsome, even when they'd first moved in together a few years before, but he'd aged so well it _almost_ wasn't fair. He'd gone from some lanky, solemn twenty-something to a slim and refined adult, with long dark hair and a goofy personality that didn't fit his face at _all._

“Hey, hyung,” he called, the korean word settling in nicely with his English. Neither Seokjin or Gunwoo were fluent but Kisu, when he'd arrived, had barely spoken any english and it wasn't as though they were going to leave him hanging on his own, trapped in a bubble of non-communication. “What are you making?”

“Stir-fry,” he replied, shrugging his big shoulders. Not quite as broad as Seokjin and only marginally bigger than Kisu, who was sitting on the counter stool, eyes roaming over a book. “Uninspired, but. Whatever works. I've got work tonight, so I can't eat anything heavy.”

“Mm,” Seokjin nodded. “I'm gonna head back out at one or so—Kisu, what are your plans?”

“I'm staying in,” Kisu said. “Big night tomorrow, so I'm just gonna relax.”

“Oh,” Seokjin nodded. “Maybe I'll stay in too? We can watch a movie or something, go to bed early.”

“I'd like that,” Kisu said, and Seokjin smiled over at him, sweet as pie. With Gunwoo, Seokjin could be—and was—rough, both verbally and physically when they got into it. But Kisu got all of his softness. Gunwoo rolled his eyes.

“Gay,” he said, and Seokjin cocked his eyebrow up so high it nearly hit his hairline while Kisu cackled behind his hands.

“Says you, fag,” he replied, sitting down at the counter and putting his elbow on the fornica, his chin in his hand. “Just for that, I'm not helping.”

“I don't need your help to make stir-fry, Seokjin Kim,” Gunwoo said, and Kisu whined out a protest.

“ _Kim Seokjin,_ ” he said, pouting. “It sounds _weird_ when you say it like that hyung.” Gunwoo hummed, taking the skillet in hand and flipping the contents. Kisu had protested their lack of a proper wok for a while, but Gunwoo made do with less and didn't care to have a mess cluttering up his kitchen, so they remained wok-less for the time being.

“I'll remember that for next time, Kisuyah.” Kisu preened a little; he did always love being treated sweetly.

“You said you have work tonight?” Seokjin asked, looking back over at his eldest housemate. “What time?”

“Mm, I start at ten, so...” he glanced over at the clock. “Too soon.”

“You have appointments?”

“Oh yeah,” Gunwoo rolled his eyes. “Six of them. I hate my job sometimes, but then I remember the money is _so_ fucking good.” Seokjin sighed in agreement; wasn't that why all of them did what they did? Gunwoo's work on camera and over the phone, Kisu's high-class escort job and Seokjin... Well. Seokjin had been making a living spreading his legs since he was eighteen and working his way through college; but when college didn't pan out, and prostitution did, that was just the way the cookie crumbled.

“Well, if you need anything?”

“I'll let you know,” Gunwoo smiled, turning off the burner. “Go get a bowl, huh? Food's done.”

“This is not stir-fry,” Kisu grumbled like he always did and Seokjin ribbed him gently.

“Welcome to America,” he said, and took a large, shallow bowl, filling the bottom with rice before covering the top with the sauteed vegetables and chicken, the smell of sesame oil and chili paste making his mouth water. “Land of the hard-hearted. Shit, this smells good, hyung.”

“So _eat,_ ” Gunwoo said, rolling his eyes as he leaned back into the counter. “You're too damned skinny both of you.”

“Look who's talking,” Seokjin shot back. “Eat a fucking cookie, you string bean.”

“Make me some and I will,” Gunwoo laughed, and Seokjin smiled, shoving a forkful of 'stir fry' into his mouth with a groan of contentedness.

All in all, he liked his life, his friends, his home and his work. All in all, life was good.

And then Min Yoongi had come running into his life, and everything had been ruined forever.

~

To start at the beginning, Seokjin was a prostitute. Had been for years. He was experienced, he was safe, and he was savage. Ruthless, even. He didn't tolerate clients treating him badly, he didn't tolerate being unpaid, and he _certainly_ didn't tolerate others moving in on his prowling territory. He'd scared off more than a few hookers in his time and although most of his encounters were by appointment now, he still liked to walk the street on occasion, pick up a new client in a fancy BMW or Escalade. Male, female, other, Seokjin didn't care, as long as they paid well and it was on one of these nights that he had the misfortune of running (literally) into a skinny little shit with dusty pink hair and narrow eyes.

He would have been gorgeous, if he hadn't been so fucking filthy. Seokjin had Standards for both hygiene and behavior and it was clear that pink-haired-boy had neither. His clothes were tight and worn, his sneakers had holes in them where his foot bent and he smelled like piss and the honeyed, stale odor of unwashed hair. He'd slammed directly into Seokjin and staggered—hadn't even apologized when he regained his balance and took off running in the direction he'd been headed.

“Fucking rude,” Seokjin mumbled, pushing his hair back and frowning. Way to sour his mood. _There goes the neighborhood,_ he thought to himself, making his way back to the taxi service, catching a ride back home. Gunwoo was laying on the couch, blushed and half-asleep, and Kisu was still gone.

“Hey,” Gunwoo smiled, and Seokjin bent over the back of the couch to get a good look at his raw lips and nipples, the pale pink welts where he'd likely scratched his own neck and chest for his viewers. “You're home early.”

“I nearly got knocked over by some homeless kid,” Seokjin replied, reaching down to fist a hand in Gunwoo's dark hair, pulling his head to test his willingness. Gunwoo smiled, a green light, and he tugged a little harder. “So I didn't get my fix.”

“Want me to fix you?” Gunwoo asked, sitting up, sighing when Seokjin yanked at his hair. “Can I record it?”

“You can blow me,” Seokjin replied, and Gunwoo nodded, getting up, bent to Seokjin's hand in his hair, fisting and refisting, unforgiving and firm.

“I'd like that,” he said, and he led Seokjin to his bedroom, turned on his lights and his camera. For all that Seokjin was used to fucking, there was still something very special about sitting on Gunwoo's mouth, feeling that talented tongue work his ass while an equally talented hand worked his dick, until he wanted it the other way around. Gunwoo had no gag reflex, so when he was on his knees in front of Seokjin, the younger man could fuck forward into his throat and back onto his fingers without having to worry about hurting him. And it was good, it was so good, his hands on Gunwoo's head, forcing him down while Gunwoo's fingers rubbed his prostate, coming down his throat with a snarl while Gunwoo jerked himself off and choked on his way up, a little string of saliva and semen connecting him to Seokjin's cock as he mouthed him soft, chin and jaw messy.

“You are such a slut,” Seokjin laughed, breathless as the camera turned off and Gunwoo leaned back into his bed, sighing. “Christ, hyung.”

“Mmm, you did me a favor,” Gunwoo admitted, dragging himself up onto his bed and reaching for his box of babywipes. “Now I don't have to record live tomorrow. I wanted to go out with Reid.”

 _Reid_ was Gunwoo's beau, or at least, as close as he could come to a beau—a gorgeous man with dark, dark skin and white teeth, who sometimes came over and made dinner for them all, who had long braids and a happy demeanor that seemed to brighten Gunwoo's sunny mood even more than usual. Seokjin smiled, taking the babywipe Gunwoo offered to clean up the mess on his belly and balls.

“Lucky you~” he teased, sitting on the bed beside his older friend. “When are you gonna ask the guy to marry you, anyway.”

“When I can quit having sex for a living,” Gunwoo replied, laying back on his bed and motioning for Seokjin to join him. “Or at least, like. Have him in every recording, you know? I think people'd like that. _Skinny asian twink takes huge black cock._ ”

“Gross, hyung,” Seokjin laughed. “Is his dick really that big? And you are too old to be a twink.”

“Excuse you,” Gunwoo smacked his belly with a laugh. “I happen to look a lot younger than I am and I have every intention of taking advantage.” Seokjin gave a long-suffering sigh and turned to cuddle against his older friend, pushing back his hair and resting his head on his chest. “And for your information yes, his cock really is that big.”

“Really?”

“Extremely.”

Seokjin hummed as he closed his eyes—determined to get some sleep right there in Gunwoo's bed, one arm braced over his belly.

He didn't think about the pink-haired-boy for nearly two weeks.

~

Then, the little shit had the nerve to run into Seokjin _again_. Literally. Except this time he managed to stammer out an apology, and Seokjin couldn't help but notice how his voice was thickly accented, that his lower lip was bleeding on the inside.

“Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry.”

“God, watch where you're _fucking going,_ ” Seokjin rolled his eyes and side-stepped the man, continued walking. He was just as dirty as last time (gross) except that now there was blood on his mouth and bruises on his face. Seokjin didn't make a habit of caring about people he didn't know. He cared about his roommates, he cared about getting paid, but he didn't care about strangers and he certainly didn't care about little baby prostitutes who were probably getting the shit beat out of them by a pimp who took all the money they made. He did _not_ have time for that.

In the words of his patron saint, Sweet Mercy Brown, _ain't nobody got time for that._

Still.

Still, he turned around a few seconds later. Saw the skinny kid disappear down a side street and thought to himself that he seemed... Smaller than he had, the last time they ran into one another. He seemed littler, like he'd shrunk.

Whatever. It wasn't his life. Not his circus, not his monkeys, and all of that.

Still.

“So,” he asked Kisu when he got back from meeting Miss Angela Downing, who paid in cash and had the best rack he'd ever had the blessing of sucking. “Have you seen a skinny little pink-haired kid down by where you meet your guys?”

Kisu, nude on the bed, pursed his mouth and hesitated. Seokjin knew he was probably turning the words over in his head to make sure he understood them. “Mmm... Small? Like... Short? Long hair?” He ruffled his hand through his bangs and put his fingers down further, to cover his eyes. “Like here?”

“Yeah,” Seokjin nodded, and Kisu nodded in return as he pulled down the covers to lay down.

“He's sometimes, he's out by the back door. I think he, ah, works out of the motel?”

“Really now,” Seokjin hummed, crossing his legs and arms.

“Wae?” Kisu asked.

“He's run into me a couple'a times,” he said, shaking his blond hair out of his eyes. “I was just wondering if you knew who he was, but if he works out of the motel he probably works for Tiger, right?”

Kisu pursed his mouth and nodded, and Seokjin scowled. Tiger was a bad pimp to work for. He pushed drugs in addition to sex, so when the kid ran into him he was probably carrying. He was probably using, too. Tiger liked that: having his hookers nice and dependent on him for their next fix. Fucked up, is what it was, and Seokjin was glad he'd told the asshole no when he'd first approached him all those years ago. They stayed out of one another's way now, for the most part, but occasionally Tiger would be on the street pushing his product and Seokjin would see him and sneer.

Still.

Skinny asian kid with a thick accent, probably illegal, working for a well-known asshole pimp left a bad taste in Seokjin's mouth. It explained his condition, anyway. Small, dirty, probably underfed, underslept and overworked. No one deserved that.

Seokjin tucked himself into Kisu's bed and dragged Kisu down with him, spooned him and kissed his neck and shoulders until he was asleep, the sheet over their bodies keeping them warm.

He didn't fall asleep for a long, long time.

~

“Hey hyung,” Seokjin said, stretching his arms up over his head. “We're gonna have company at dinner.”

“Uh, thanks for the heads up?” Gunwoo blinked. “Does that mean I need to change what I'm making?”

“I don't think so,” Seokjin shook his head as he pulled on his sneakers. “I'm gonna go get him now, so I'll make sure he's okay with whatever n'I'll text you.”

“Okay,” Gunwoo nodded, his hair back in a fluffy little tail. Seokjin gave it a swat as he walked by. “Hey!”

“It's cute,” Seokjin grinned. “Reid'll love it.” Gunwoo flushed and Seokjin flashed a V, heading out into the mid afternoon sun and steeling himself. He had two grand in his pocket. If that didn't buy a cheap whore for the night, well, the kid was out of luck.

The motel wasn't seedy from the front. Kisu met his clients there because he didn't want to meet them at the house, but the back of the place was vile. Seokjin knew which room Tiger worked out of and that was the door he bumped his fist on. This was a bad idea, but he needed to know. He hadn't seen pink-haired-boy in a few weeks, but Kisu said he was still working out the back of the motel, so there he was, with every intent of _buying his services_ for the night so he could all but interrogate him and decide if it was gonna be worth keeping him around. Rescuing him, for lack of a better word. Seokjin definitely didn't have a bleeding heart, but the more he thought about some poor illegal kid working for Tiger the worse he felt.

He was reminded of why when Tiger opened the door and sneered, the gold grill in his teeth out of place with his pale skin.

“What can I do for you, princess,” he sneered, and Seokjin cocked his eyebrow, imperious.

“Pinky. I want him for the night.”

“Finally wanna sink your dick into some underage ass, huh,” Tiger said. “Wouldn't go for that one. Who knows what he's got.”

“I want that one,” Seokjin replied, shoulders at their full breadth. “When I want your opinion on who I stick my dick in, I'll let you know.”

“Fine, fine,” Tiger drawled, moving away from the door. “Money's fuckin' money. Five hundred, yours for the night.”

“Deal,” Seokjin counted out the hundreds, but didn't hand them to Tiger. “I want him out here first.”

“You tricky little shit,” Tiger said, but he hollered into the room and, after a moment, that skinny little pink-haired waif came out, looking even smaller than he had before. He let himself get shoved out the door and just stood there, eyes down, while Seokjin handed Tiger the hundreds. “Now fuck off,” he growled, and Seokjin bared his teeth, taking the young man by the wrist to pull him away from the motel room door, which slammed behind them.

...Shit. Seokjin hadn't really thought this through. He couldn't bring the kid back to the house looking—or smelling—the way he did. “Look,” he said. “I'm gonna get a room in a motel. You are gonna stay there and get cleaned up till I get you some clothes, you got it?”

It took the young man a moment to respond. Like Kisu, he seemed to be turning the words over and over in his head. “...Yeah,” he said after a minute. “I got it.”

Something in Seokjin's heart cracked a little. The kid clearly didn't understand at all.

~

The thrift shop was only two doors down from the love motel Seokjin had left the kid in. He picked up a pair of jeans, a pair of lounge pants. Clean socks, a pack of underwear, a couple of t-shirts and a sweater for twenty-five bucks and headed back, unlocking the door and surprised to find the kid sitting right where he'd left him, on the bed, staring out over the room.

“Didn't I tell you to get cleaned up,” he said, his voice relatively gentle. The kid turned to look at him and Seokjin held up the bag of clothes, motioned to the bathroom. “Take a bath,” he said. “Get changed.” He did as he was directed, hesitated inside the door. “Go on,” Seokjin said, going to turn on the air conditioner in an attempt to get rid of the smell of the kids skin, clothes and hair.

The bathroom door closed and Seokjin put his face in one hand and wondered what the fuck he was doing. He heard the shower going, heard the vent turn on, and he wondered what the kid looked like under his clothes. Was he skin and bones, was he starved? Was his belly bloated, would he be able to count his ribs and the bumps of his vertebrae?

Seokjin didn't understand how someone could want to fuck that, if he was honest. Especially not smelling the way he did, like something was rotten in him. After fifteen minutes the shower stopped going and the kid opened the door, wearing the jeans but not a shirt, a towel wrapped around his chest.

“Why aren't you dressed,” Seokjin asked, and the young man swallowed hard, pressed the towel hard under his left arm. “What's wrong.”

“...hurts,” he said, and his mouth fought to make the foreign syllable. “It hurts.”

“What hurts,” Seokjin asked, standing up and hating how the boy flinched back towards the bathroom, his eyes wide. “What hurts, kid.”

The young man carefully peeled the towel away from his chest, and Seokjin found the source of the smell, like rot, that seemed to surround the kid. There was a hideous wound under his arm, a cut from a knife or maybe like he got caught on a chain link fence and ripped himself open. It was frayed and infected, an awkward flap of skin that should have had stitches when it happened.

“Jesus Christ,” Seokjin almost gagged. “All right. All right, all right, c'mere, siddown.” The boy did as directed, and Seokjin fumbled for the first aid kit in the draw next to the bed. There wasn't much in it: saline, iodine, gauze, neosporin, an ace bandage and tape, but it'd have to do, for now. “This is gonna hurt,” he said, laying the kid down and pushing up his arm. He flinched and bit into his lip and Seokjin felt like a fucking monster as he squirted the saline all into the wound. The skin was pink and inflamed, but he'd managed to wash away most of the pus in the shower, so there wasn't much left to clean out. The iodine, though. That, Seokjin dabbed into the wound with a cotton ball, trying not to listen to the kid holding back whimpers of pain, trying to ignore the way his hand was fisted so tightly in the headboard that his knuckles were white. He could only imagine how often he'd been told to shut up, be quiet through whatever was being done to him. “Sorry,” he said, carefully folding the wound back into place as much as he could, reaching to put gauze on it, then tape. The kid was crying, gasping near silently for breath. “Sorry,” he said again. “Sorry, sorry kid, it's gonna help, I swear.”

Seokjin grabbed the ace bandage and pulled the kid to sit up, wrapping it around his chest to hold the gauze in place while the kid trembled and wiped at his eyes. “Sorry,” he was whispering. “Sorry, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry,” Seokjin said, helping the kid get a shirt on, kneeling in front of him. “Hey. Hey, I'm Seokjin. What's your name?”

“My... Name,” the boy said. “Sugar.”

“No,” Seokjin said, hoping the boy caught his meaning. “What's your name. Your real name. Not the one Tiger gave you.” There was a long, unending moment of silence.

“...Yoongi,” he said, his voice very, very small. “My name is Yoongi Min.”

 


	2. A Moments Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which everyone is flustered, but it's okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know that whole, "calm before the storm," thing?  
> basically rocking that right now.  
> the perspective in this part changes from section to section: i was hoping to maintain the entire thing in seokjin's pov but that's not fair to gunwoo and kisu, who definitely have thoughts and feelings of their own about this whole situation.

“Yoongi Min?” Seokjin asked, hesitating, before saying, “Min Yoongi?” The kid's eyes lit up just a little, he blinked rapidly and nodded, his hair in his eyes. “You're Korean?”

“Yes,” Yoongi nodded with more fervor. “Yes, Korean. You...talk? Speak?”

“A little,” he said, making the motion with his hand, _a pinch._ He licked his lips and looked up at the smaller man. “How old are you,” he asked, the Korean awkward on his tongue, still. Kisu always insisted on Seokjin and Gunwoo speaking Korean as often as possible, so at least he was... Conversationally fluent.

“Seventeen,” Yoongi replied, practically vibrating, though Seokjin couldn't determine why. “I'm seventeen.”

“When's your birthday?”

“March,” he said, and Seokjin flinched. March. That meant Yoongi was freshly seventeen, just a couple of months before. Somehow it made this whole situation worse. How did an underage Korean kid end up under Tiger's thumb? “You...” Yoongi started in English. “You are hyung?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Seokjin replied, thinking to himself that this was _such_ a bad idea. “Yeah, I'm your hyung. Come on,” he offered out his hand. “We'll go to my house.”

“Okay,” Yoongi nodded and took Seokjin's hand in an expression of trust that made Seokjin uncomfortable. He didn't even ask any questions. Just took his hand and clasped it like a small child might. Seokjin didn't want to think about what kind of trauma caused a kid to do that: trust the (probably first) person to give them a kind word in their native language in who knew how long. Didn't most seventeen year olds have more sense than that? Shit, when Seokjin was seventeen he didn't trust his own parents for fucks sake, never mind some stranger seven years older than him.

“I gotta clean up in here first,” Seokjin said. “Hold on.” He went into the bathroom, gathered Yoongi's dirty clothes. There was crusted blood and pus on the shirt he'd been wearing, the black hiding the stain but not the smell and he threw it into a trash bag along with the filthy jeans, boxers and socks. Yoongi's shoes were in shit condition but there was nothing to be done about those for now, so he focused on what he could do: throw those vile clothes away and get Yoongi the fuck away from Tiger, at least for a night. It would be better than nothing, would give him some time to figure out what to do. He couldn't _leave_ the kid with Tiger. That would be unforgivable, that would be... Heinous. Granted, three sex workers in a house didn't exactly seem like a great environment either, but at least he wouldn't be getting sold for sex or drugs. He and Gunwoo had taken each other, and then Kisu in—they could figure this out, too.

“Hyung?” Yoongi's voice came from the other room and Seokjin swallowed, coming out. He felt the entire weight of Yoongi's life on his shoulders.

“Yeah.”

“Are...” Yoongi hesitated. “Are we...”

“No,” Seokjin shook his head, hated how the tension in Yoongi's body dropped in relief. “No, we're not gonna fuck, Yoongi. Lets go.” He took his hand again, clenched gently on his fingers and walked him out the door and into the street. His clean pink hair moved with the breeze, and his lips were curved into a quiet, happy smile despite the redness of his cheeks, the pallor of the rest of his face that signaled a fever.

Shit. _Shit,_ what had Seokjin gotten himself into.

~

“So who's the shrimp,” Gunwoo asked, blinking as Seokjin tugged Yoongi inside despite his terrified trembling. Kisu peeked over the back of the couch and squeaked a little.

“He's so cute!” he announced in Korean and Yoongi's head snapped over to him, watching him climb off the couch. Seokjin thirty-fourth-guessed himself. This was a fucking bad idea. “Aah, so adorable and small!”

“I am not small,” Yoongi protested weakly, pressed in close to Seokjin as though to protect himself.

“You kind of are,” Gunwoo said, leaning into the counter and cocking his head, looking for all the world like some huge owl as he stared, unblinking. “So, I ask again, who's the shrimp? Not a client, right?”

“No, no, this is Yoongi. Min Yoongi, he's Korean.”

“Obviously, with a name like that,” Gunwoo replied at the same time Kisu made a happy little noise and moved closer to introduce himself.

“I'm Choi Kisu,” he said, offering out one hand. “It's nice to meet you, Yoongi!” Yoongi stared at him in something like wonder. For a moment he was silent and then he bowed at the waist, very low.

“Thank you,” he said, and Seokjin blinked, carefully putting one hand on Yoongi's narrow back as he stood up. “It's nice to meet you.”

“Hyung!” Kisu chirped, smiling handsomely as he continued in Korean rather than English. “You're younger than me, right? You can call me hyung! It's been a long time since someone called me hyung! Seokjin doesn't call me hyung because he's a disrespectful brat, but—are you okay?” Kisu stopped talking and took a step forward. Seokjin looked down and saw that Yoongi was standing there with his eyes wide open and full of tears. It hadn't occurred to him that he didn't know how long it had been since Yoongi heard another person speak Korean. He hadn't thought about that. He hadn't thought about how lonely and isolating it must have been, being able to speak only the most rudimentary phrases. But there was Kisu, speaking fluent Korean and smiling and unthreatening and Yoongi was crying.

“Yoongi?” Seokjin asked, and Yoongi nodded, rubbed at his eyes and nose with his hands.

“I am okay,” he said, his voice sounding thick. “I am okay. Okay.”

“You don't seem okay,” Kisu said gently, and Seokjin watched him offer out his hand again, palm-up. “Do you want to come sit down?” Maybe Kisu knew. Maybe Kisu could see in the tenseness of his shoulders and the thinness of his jaw, maybe he could see in Yoongi what he used to see in a mirror when he'd first come to be with Seokjin and Gunwoo.

To Seokjin's great relief, Yoongi nodded, let Kisu take his hand and lead him to sit down, talking quietly in his native tongue. Gunwoo watched from the counter, and slowly looked over to Seokjin, waving two fingers, _come here._

Seokjin slid to lean beside him.

“What the hell,” Gunwoo asked. Seokjin reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose and his older friend nodded. “I see. That bad, huh.”

“He works for Tiger,” Seokjin said, keeping his voice low as Kisu chatted away and Yoongi listened, attention rapt. Gunwoo hissed in a breath.

“Shit, really?”

“Yeah,” Seokjin dropped his head into his hands. “He's got this fucking cut on his ribs, Gunwoo, it's fucking infected, he's so goddamned thin, I couldn't just—I couldn't.”

“No, no it's... I get it,” Gunwoo nodded. “It's not like we can't afford to feed him. But you know Tiger knows where we are. He'll come after him.”

“I could buy him.”

“Is he legal?”  
“Don't think so.”

“That makes it easier.” Gunwoo's eyes were hooded, lazy and sharp and Seokjin thanked whatever god was watching out for them that they had Gunwoo there to watch out for them. The older man was knowledgable, smart about rules, laws, and numbers in ways that Seokjin wasn't. Gunwoo was the one who had bought the house in the first place. In cash. If there was something to be done with money and paper, he could do it. “If they can't trace him legally we have the advantage. It's just a matter of how much it's gonna cost to get Tiger to give him up.”

“He hates me.”

“Yeah, I know. You can count on that doubling the price.” Gunwoo's brow furrowed deeply as he turned back to the stove, where his pork chops were finally ready to be turned over. “Lemme think on it. I'll figure it out.”

“In the meantime?”

“In the meantime, get him fed, let him rest. I'll look at his ribs after dinner. Needs stitches?”

“Bad. Or it has to be cut off so it can scab over properly.”

“Right.” Gunwoo took a breath and turned on the rice cooker. “All right. All right.”

~

The second Yoongi started crying, Kisu went full-blown mother hen. He led him over to the couch and sat with him, their knees bumping, and held his hand as he stuttered through an apology, that it had just been such a long time since he heard someone speak Korean, it was just so good to hear it, he was sorry for overreacting.

“Don't worry about it,” he said, smiling. “It's totally okay, huh? How do you know Seokjin?”

Yoongi bit into his lip and looked down. Kisu could guess. When he'd first come here, he'd been sleeping under awnings and in alleyways when the money for his hostel ran out, until Seokjin had come, in the middle of a snowstorm, and pulled him out of the cold and into the living room, frowning but bustling to wrap him in warm blankets, speaking to him via an app on his phone that allowed him to use Korean phrases. Seokjin was a badass, but there was a softness to him that very few had the privilege of experiencing.

“Did he rescue you,” he asked, his smile small and secret.

“...For the night,” Yoongi whispered, and Kisu's chest tightened.

“Aah,” he nodded, sitting back further into the couch, motioning for Yoongi to follow. “Come here, let me cuddle you. That's right, c'mere.” Yoongi crept up and laid his head on Kisu's chest, the two of them tucked in close on the couch. “So. Where in Korea are you from?”

“Daegu,” he said, and Kisu nodded.

“I'm from Seoul,” he replied, and Yoongi smiled.

“I can hear that.”

“Yah, be respectful,” he teased, pinching at Yoongi's cheek, which was far too hot. A fever, surely. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Seventeen,” Yoongi said, and Kisu wanted to kill someone. Seventeen? Seventeen, he was seventeen. He was a fucking _kid._

“How did you get here?"  
  
“Um,” Yoongi pursed his lips. “I just... It was.”

“You don't have to tell me,” Kisu said, because he could feel Yoongi's chest shuddering. He knew how he'd gotten here. How the fuck else did a seventeen year old kid get to the other side of the planet with no paperwork and no guardian, nothing? By being fucking plucked up and _sold,_ that's how. Kisu, at least, had come on his own terms. But Yoongi? Clearly that wasn't the case for him.

“You don't have to tell me. Do you have any questions? Anything you want to know?”

There were a few long moments of silence before Yoongi spoke. “Is it safe here?”

“Of course,” Kisu nodded.

“Are you sure?”

“Mmhm.” He tilted his cheek into Yoongi's pink hair, his black roots. “None of us are gonna hurt you, and we're not gonna let anything else hurt you while you're here, either, okay? Not a client, not Tiger, not anything.” He paused for a minute, rubbed his hand on Yoongi's back. “You're always gonna be safe here.”

“Thank you so much,” he stammered out, so formal it would have made Kisu laugh if the circumstances had been different.

“Don't thank me for being a decent person,” Kisu said, sighing. “You don't have to thank me for that. You do, however, have to thank Gunwoo for making dinner once it's done, which should be in a few minutes. He's making pork chops. And rice, naturally.”

Yoongi nodded in affirmation and Kisu hummed.

~

Gunwoo had seen a lot of shit, okay. Gunwoo, in his twenty-seven years, had seen a _lot_ of _shit._ Including drug dealers, drug overdoses, murders, rapes, gang wars and all varieties of micro-atrocities that made a person afraid to be alive, afraid to leave the house. Gunwoo had also gone to get certification as an EMT when he was twenty-one, back when he'd thought it was his destiny to save people, so he knew what he was doing as far as wound-tending, which came in handy. Moreso now than it had been when he'd first picked up Seokjin, the two of them roommates in a small studio before the decision was made to buy a house. They'd been together for a long time, the two of them. Gunwoo trusted Seokjin, but sometimes he wanted to shake him until he stopped being so fucking... Himself.

Well. He could understand why Seokjin brought the shrimp home, anyway. He was too skinny, too small, definitely running a mid-temp fever and he was about ten thousand times too trusting, as he laid out on the bed with his shirt off and raised his arm so Gunwoo could peel off the gauze and get a good look at the wound there. He hissed in a breath, and Yoongi laughed lightly, said something in Korean he didn't understand.

“What'd he say,” he asked, rummaging through their huge (nearly professional) first aid box. Kisu was sitting on the bed, and he looked over at Gunwoo.

“Aah, he said it must look really bad.”

“It does,” he replied, pursing his mouth. The flesh wasn't dead yet, but it would be soon without proper care. “I'm gonna have to give him at least four stitches. I can tape the rest up, if he's not gonna be doing a whole lot of moving.” Kisu relayed the information and Yoongi pursed his mouth, spoke quietly.

“He can't promise that.”

“Well. Eight stitches, then,” Gunwoo said, already grabbing for the numbing agent that would at least keep the pain from being too intense. The cut didn't get all the way down to the muscle, but it came damned close and he wondered how the fuck it had happened in the first place. It was definitely too messy to be a knife wound, unless said knife was serrated and while he wouldn't put that past Tiger, the positioning was awkward, tucked under the arm like that. “How'd it happen?” He didn't really have any intention of listening, but getting Yoongi talking would help him relax a bit.

There were a few minutes of Korean quietly translated into English. Yoongi had been running, he'd jumped a fence and caught his chest on a piece of barbed wire on the way down. Gunwoo didn't even want to think about what he'd probably been running from.

Kisu kept him talking while Gunwoo got out everything he needed, snapped a pair of gloves on and smeared the wound with gel, trying to ignore how Yoongi flinched and gasped for air. Seokjin was out cleaning up the kitchen with the intent of coming in when he was finished, but Gunwoo rather thought he didn't need to see this, the shrimp in any more pain than he was already in. “Do me a favor,” Gunwoo told Kisu. “Go get the white chocolate liquor out of my fridge.”

“Why?”

“Because numbing gel ain't gonna do shit, that's why. Grab one of the water bottles, too,” he replied, not bothering to look up as he threaded the needle, grabbed the gauze pads, the big bottle of saline. Seokjin had probably thought he was doing the right thing with the iodine, but it tended to cause more damage than good, especially if used more than once on a wound like this one. Kisu said something to Yoongi and got up from the bed. Gunwoo took in a breath and tried to remain as calm as possible.

“...hyung?” Yoongi asked, and Gunwoo looked down at him. Shit, he was so young. He was so, so fucking young. Gunwoo recalled a thousand times he'd seen a young guy just like this, bleeding out on the street, slammed into a wall, thrown through a window. Violence was part of his life but he'd managed to leave most of it behind when he'd left the concrete and steel of the inner city. It still turned his stomach.

“Yeah,” he said, looking down at him. “What is it.”

“I am sorry,” he said, and Gunwoo frowned. “For,” Yoongi started again. “For trouble.”

“It's no trouble,” Gunwoo replied, shaking his head so Yoongi could get the motion, even if he didn't know what was being said. “Kisu is going to get you a drink. It's alcohol, okay? But this is really gonna hurt, and I don't want it to be worse than it has to.”

Kisu came in with a cup and straw, smiling. “I come bearing alcohol!” he announced, trying to keep the mood light. “Seokjin got a call from a client he can't say no to, so he'll be back in an hour or two.” He spoke Korean to Yoongi who nodded, and let the straw between his lips when Kisu directed him. He flinched, presumably at the underlying taste of the liquor, but he finished the small cup and laid his head back down, breathing slowly.

“He's got a fever,” Gunwoo said softly. “I'm gonna get him stitched up, get him some tylenol, your job is to keep him drinking so he doesn't get dehydrated any more than the alcohol's gonna already make'm. I've got appointments tonight so I can't stay with you guys.” Kisu nodded in understanding.

“Okay, Yoongi,” Gunwoo said after a few minutes. “You ready?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, and it had to be good enough.

He cleaned the cut with saline. Used a small pair of tweezers to make sure it got all in the wound, to make sure nothing got left out. Yoongi made soft distressed noises but his head kept dropping and that was better than screaming. Luckily the deep inside of the wound was not infected, just the outer edges, and Gunwoo smeared them with an antiseptic before he took up the needle and swallowed hard.

Punching the metal through the skin was just as difficult as Gunwoo remembered. His stomach clenched but Yoongi remained mostly still, whining and wiggling while Kisu rubbed his hair, spoke quiet Korean to shush him. It took six stitches to close the cut (incision-avulsion, his training said) to the point where he didn't think it would rip open. He smoothed the antiseptic over the stitches and the skin, dressed it carefully, and re-wrapped the ace bandage. Yoongi was flushed and crying but not moving too much, talking in slurred Korean to Kisu, who looked like he was going to be sick.

“Kisu?” Gunwoo asked, and Kisu shook his head. Gunwoo nodded in understanding and slowly got up. “I'll go get the tylenol, okay?” The younger man nodded and Gunwoo swallowed hard, thinking to himself that maybe this was a really bad idea, but they were already in up to the neck so what was the point of taking it all back now?

When he brought the medication back Yoongi was either asleep or passed out and Kisu was sitting up beside him, wiping at his face. The water bottle was half-empty at his side. “You okay,” Gunwoo asked, and Kisu shook his head, pressed his face to Gunwoo's stomach when the man came to stand beside him. Gunwoo ran fingers through his dark hair. “I'm sorry, Kisuyah,” he said, voice soft. This brought back a whole lot of ugly for the two of them, things he hadn't wanted to think about, things he hadn't wanted Kisu to think about but here they were, and he knew they were both remembering Kisu's fifth night on the job when some fucking john thought it was okay to tie him down and cut him open like he was filleting a goddamned fish. The white chocolate liquor had helped then, too. Gunwoo's patient hands.

“Me too,” Kisu whispered. “Go on, go,” he sat up and rubbed at his eyes. “I'm okay. You have work, I'm okay.”

“If you need me,” Gunwoo said, bending to kiss Kisu's head and glancing at the clock. He'd be just on time. “Just knock, okay? I'll cut the connection.”

“Yeah,” Kisu nodded, and Gunwoo left the room, heading down the hall to his own. His appointments were video that night, but at least he'd gotten Yoongi taken care of. Kisu would be okay, Seokjin would be home in an hour or so. Everything would be fine.

Everything would be fine.

~

If Gunwoo played his cards right, he could make upwards of three grand a night. Kisu could rake in at least half that, and Seokjin tended to make an even two, every time he went out. But sometimes he had clients who paid him twenty-five hundred for a couple of hours and he couldn't just ignore those calls when they came, no matter the circumstances. The married couple he was with at the moment were millionaires and threw money at him like it was candy; they seemed to think it was funny, that he didn't have much shame when it came to getting paid. But with his nerves on fire, knowing that he'd left Yoongi in good hands, Seokjin was more anxious than usual and it played into their, _lets seduce the cute asian kid_ thing they had going.

Still, it was hard to think about the situation at home when he had a man behind him, buried up to the balls and a woman in front of him, soft and wet around his dick. Neither of them were particularly loud, but Seokjin whined when the husband pushed him down and forward, presumably to get his dick a little deeper. He wasn't that big, but his hands were strong and the grip he had on Seokjin's hips was surely going to bruise. His wife was tan and smooth all over, small-breasted but passionate in how she held on to his shoulders and rocked up against him, the slap of his groin to hers loud in the bedroom.

“Oh, Jin, just a little more, yes,” she kissed his throat and Seokjin dropped his head, let her mouth at his ear when her husband picked up speed. She was breathless and Seokjin just held himself between them until the husband slammed his hips forward and buried Seokjin deep into his wife, the woman yelping and squeezing tight, so tight.

Seokjin came with her lips on his neck and when her husband pulled back she giggled, smoothing back Seokjin's hair. “Aah, you're so good,” she cooed sweetly, like she was talking to a particularly well-behaved puppy. “You're always _so_ good, Jin.”

“Thanks,” he breathed, almost laughing as he eased away from her.

“Do you want a shower before you go, babe? Anything to eat?” her husband asked, looking over at the two of them. Seokjin shook his head, smiled, pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“No thanks,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “Mmm—ah!” He yelped in surprise when she poked him gently in the belly, smiling up at him.

“Well, go on then,” she hummed, getting off the bed. “Left your stuff on the table by the door.”

Seokjin took a moment to wipe himself down in the bathroom before getting redressed. His clients had already made their way to their proper bedroom, he was sure, so he let himself out while being sure to grab his payment envelope. They were always quick, easy and efficient. Seokjin loved that. They'd been some of his first clients, back when he was nineteen.

He drove back to the house and as he did his mood grew darker and darker. He wasn't sure of why Yoongi was occupying so much of his thoughts—maybe it was just how fucking helpless he seemed. Seokjin was sure he wasn't completely harmless but he certainly hadn't been able to take care of himself very well. But was he addicted? Had Tiger been shooting him up? How sick was he? Did he need to go to a hospital and if he did, how were they going to get around giving all the information they'd surely want?

His thoughts quieted when he walked into the house and found the living room empty. He went through and turned off the lights, checked on Gunwoo's door to see that the lights were on in his room, as they were in Kisu's. Gunwoo was working though, according to the little _OPEN_ business sign on his door, so Seokjin slipped into Kisu's room and smiled a little.

Kisu and Yoongi were laying on the bed, facing one another. Their hands were tangled together and Seokjin stepped inside, closed the door and laid down on top of the covers, just behind Yoongi. With one arm tucked under his head and the other braced over his waist, Seokjin attempted to sleep.

He just wanted to sleep.

~

Yoongi woke up warm.

That was kind of weird, he normally woke up shivery or at least cool; Tiger always had the AC on to hide the smell of his booze and the marijuana he liked to smoke while waiting for 'his girls' to get home. It was nice, though, the warmth, and he opened his eyes, blinking away sleep to see an extremely beautiful face in front of his own, eyes closed, a fall of dark hair on the pillow. Kisu. _Kisu-hyung,_ he thought to himself with a smile. _Seokjin-hyung's friend_. There was warmth behind him, too, and a small tilt of his head showed that it was Seokjin, spooned up behind him and very much asleep.

Seokjin. Yoongi had slammed into him before. Once while he was running from a client, and once when he was running from the cops. He'd been so shocked when Seokjin showed up at Tiger's place and... And _paid for his services._ He was even more surprised that they hadn't done anything. Hadn't even _kissed._ He'd just made sure that Yoongi got a shower and a change of clothes, checked on the painful wound under his left arm and got him dinner.

It all felt like a very, very strange dream.

He expected to wake up any moment: to be back on the second bedroom floor with the other unwashed bodies of Tiger's _girls,_ boys Yoongi's age and younger, girls with dead eyes and dull hair. None of them spoke Korean but when he'd gotten there, terrified and crying and pleading, they'd all moved together to silence him as though the sound of his agony might reawaken their own.

 _Sugar,_ he'd been renamed when he'd refused to give his name to Tiger, like his birth name was an incantation that couldn't be given to the enemy. _Sugar,_ he'd been called and after the first few nights of being manhandled and slapped Yoongi had stopped crying, instead just tried to make sure that he didn't get hurt more than he had to. Some of them liked that, hurting him, but others liked it when he liked it, so he had to at least pretend.

Seokjin hadn't fucked him.

For some reason it surprised Yoongi. He'd been expecting Seokjin to bend him over and fuck him and leave but he hadn't. Not that it would have been so bad, probably; Seokjin was handsome, with broad shoulders and a small waist, with a _beautiful_ face. Even in so much pain, even with a fever, Yoongi could see that.

Yoongi felt pathetic, so eager to trust someone that he hadn't even thought twice about coming home with Seokjin. It hadn't lead to anything. Gunwoo, who was large-eyed and solemn, cleaning out his wound and Kisu, with sharp features, tucking him into bed and singing nursery songs to put him to sleep. This was a dream. A wonderful dream and Yoongi didn't want to wake up.

He closed his eyes and pushed himself down further into the blankets, felt the warm body behind him shift to cover him a little bit more and wasn't surprised to feel Seokjin's head resting on his, his lips on his cheekbone, his arm braced over his belly.

 


	3. Broken Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hoseok and taehyung are here to Fuck Shit Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: madlove!violent sex, implications of prostitution/abuse, and the traumatic aftermath. please take my warnings seriously.

Seokjin hated to let Yoongi go in the morning. It wasn't what he wanted to do, put the kid in a taxi and send him back to the motel but he didn't have much choice. If he didn't send Yoongi back willingly Tiger would come to the house and take him, and whether that meant dragging him away or killing him, Seokjin was sure Tiger wouldn't care. At the same time, he wasn't responsible for the kid. Yes, he'd spooned him the night before, had woken up to his nose against his throat and Kisu smiling at them, okay, yes that had happened, but this was _not—_ It was just _not._

“Look,” Seokjin said, as he stood on the curb with him to wait. “Look. I'll come back as soon as I can, okay? Or Kisu or Gunwoo will come and get you. We'll figure it out.”

Yoongi nodded like he understood though Seokjin knew he didn't, and he sighed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He let Yoongi get into the car and watched it drive away before reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone and dial a number. The phone rang only twice before it was picked up.

“Sup, boss.”  
“Hoseok,” he said, still looking at the road, feeling his chest pull tight. “I have a favor to ask you. Something I need taken care of immediately. Are you and Tae available tonight?”

~

 _Anything you want, boss, I'll do it for you._ That was what Hoseok had promised Seokjin four years ago when he and Gunwoo had worked to wean him off his drug dependency, when Seokjin—a young man he'd always looked up to and cared about—told him he was ruining himself. _Anything you want, boss,_ he'd said, and he had no intention of going back on his word.

The details were shifty. No murder, unfortunately. No blood. But apparently the kid Seokjin was sheltering was not only a whore for the worst pimp in the area but illegal, too: who knew what that meant in the long run, but all Seokjin seemed concerned with was that they got the kid out of Tiger's clutches and into their own.

“Vee,” he called down the hallway to his lover, who poked his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush sticking out from between his lips as Hoseok made his way down, naked as the day he was born, ruffling his own hair.

“Hmm?”

“We got a job.”

“Mmm?”

“From Seokjin.”

“Mm-hm!!” Taehyung disappeared into the bathroom: there was the sound of spitting, water running, and then he was bounding out into the hallway, all gold skin and dark hair, eyes bright like a child at Christmas. “Oh man, oh man what do we get to do, huh? What's the boss want us to do.”

Taehyung had entered Hoseok's life right before Seokjin had taken Hoseok into his iron grip to heal him. Taehyung had been a wild, willful child then, and it had been mostly Gunwoo looking after him: forcing him to sit down with his senior-year schoolwork, talking him through panic attacks, helping figure out something to counter-act his natural adrenaline rush hyperactivity he couldn't seem to come down from, practices and patterns that still worked. Regardless, Taehyung thought of Seokjin as his boss: he'd had a part in the deal too, offered his hand out to Seokjin with a stiff elbow and a furrowed brow.

“You know that pimp down in the motel? The one who pimps out the fourteen year olds,” Hoseok asked, dragging Taehyung to him and grinning at the light in his eyes, the frantic and savage ferocity sparkling there as he nodded. “We get to fuck him up good. We don't get to kill him, but we get to make the pain last.”

“Yeah?” Taehyung asked, practically vibrating with excitement as he always did at the prospect of a job: especially a job that involved violence, especially a job that involved violence against a shit pimp who hurt kids. “When, when do we get to go?”

“S'gotta wait till tonight,” Hoseok replied, tracing his lips over Taehyung's freshly washed neck, biting into the bruises he'd left not three hours before when his body had been braced against the wall, legs around Taehyung's hips, fingernails digging into his shoulders. “I know you're excited, but we gotta wait.”

“Fuck,” Taehyung hissed, the towel around his hips slipping down with how Hoseok was pinning him to the counter. “Oh fuck, Hoseok.” Hoseok yanked Taehyung around to kiss softly at his hairline, shoving his hips hard into the counter.

“I'll let you bring the bat,” Hoseok breathed, mouthing at Taehyung's ear, tugging at his piercings as he ripped the towel down his legs and forced him to spread his knees. Taehyung groaned, tipped his head back and planted his hands on the vanity mirror, licking his lips. “The wooden one, not the metal. I'll let you break his kneecaps.”

“Oh, shit yes,” Taehyung grinned and in his reflection Hoseok saw the monster he'd claimed as his, his toothy grin and feral gaze. “ _Fuck_ yeah, Hoseok, shit, you sure I can't bleed him, please, just a little, _ahfuck—_ ” Taehyung's voice broke off as Hoseok yanked the towel the rest of the way off and pressed their bare bodies together, his pierced cock tucked right up close to Taehyung's _delectable_ ass.

“Boss said no blood,” Hoseok chided. “Hold still.” Taehyung dropped his head to his bicep, bit into it and Hoseok grinned as he pumped the bottle of lube that sat on the bathroom counter, plain as day. He slicked his cock, rubbed two fingers against his younger lover and pushed them in, glad to hear a moan of contentment. He hadn't ripped him up the night before, then.

“No blood,” Hoseok reminded, pushing one cheek out of the way and guiding his dick with his free hand, pushing in slow with a grunt. “Nn, shit. No blood, but,” he grinned, pushed in easy and ground their hips together. Shit, Taehyung's ass was so good, hot and soft, sucking him in. “He didn't say he gets to keep that nasty grill of his.”

“I wanna rip if out,” Taehyung snarled, spreading his legs and getting a little further up on the counter so his balls were resting atop the rounded edge. Hoseok reached around to fondle him while he slapped his hips forward, hearing the protest of the counter only barely. “Wanna reach into his fucking filthy mouth n'yank it right out of his fucking u-ugly fuckin'... Fuck—face oh shit, shit yeah Hoseok, fuck.” Hoseok fisted his hand into Taehyung's hair and yanked back, biting into his throat as he fucked him into the bathroom counter.

“Yeah, baby,” he cooed, rubbing his fingers against Taehyung's tip and thoroughly enjoying the view in the mirror: his savage lover, pinned, writhing. “Yeah, I'll let you fuck up his face like that, shit yeah. He's gonna fuckin' scream like a bitch n'we're gonna fuck him up so fuckin' bad, we're gonna fuckin' _end him_ Vee, we're gonna _break_ him.”

“Shit,” Taehyung made a sound like a sob, cheeks flushed a pink that spread down his chest to his pierced nipples. “Shit, gonna blow, hyung, fuck, deeper—” Hoseok pushed Taehyung's head forward. Pressed his cheek to the glass and fisted his cock, fucked into him until he grunted, cum spitting all over the sink while his hips jerked his body up into the counter, back onto Hoseok's dick. “Oh shit,” he breathed, breath fogging the glass. “Shit, oh shit.”

“Knees,” Hoseok panted, pulling out and squeezing at the base of his length while Taehyung all but fell to the floor, turned around to open his mouth and moan when Hoseok's cock pushed in. “Oh baby, oh,” Hoseok wrapped his fingers into Taehyung's hair and pulled him down on his cock until he started to choke. The spasming of his throat made Hoseok pull out to cum all over that pretty little mouth, rubbing his tip through the mess and all over Taehyung's lips before pushing back in, thrusting slow. “Fuck, s'gonna be so fuckin' good, Vee,” he said, pulling back and pulling Taehyung to his feet, sitting him on the counter when he couldn't stay upright. “Gonna be so fuckin' good for us, I know you love it so much babe.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung groaned and tipped his head back to offer his neck to Hoseok's lips as he planted kisses there, his hands on Taehyung's waist while those pretty legs wrapped around his hips. “Shit, yes.”

“Hyung's gonna be so proud of us,” Hoseok whispered, and Taehyung whined, nodded, let himself be lifted up without a struggle and Hoseok was grateful. “We're gonna take care of that shithead once and for all n'hyung won't ever have to look at his ugly face again.”

~

Yoongi was expecting to be put through the wringer when he got back. He knew it was coming, but that didn't make it any easier. Tiger was pissed—smacked him around the room while demanding to know where he'd gone, what had happened. Yoongi had cried in confusion and pain, unable to understand the questions save for a few words and Tiger had beat him with his leather belt, heaving his back and ass and thighs red and tender, so very, very sore. He'd barely had time to collapse to his sheets before he was sold off to the first guy who showed up.

He was fed something that made him feel heavy and hollow, all sound echoing in his head as his vision blurred. He tried to protest but couldn't seem to find his voice, couldn't make any noise aside from little whining sounds that the stranger surely thought were pleasure-induced as he was stretched and fucked with a toy and then a cock, that same cock smearing cum against his cheek and eyelid when the guy finished, one hand fisted up in Yoongi's hair to hold his head up off the bed. Yoongi didn't mind having sex—he minded having sex with complete strangers at someone else's discretion. He minded immediately being handed over to two guys, locked into a motel room with them as they worked him open enough to take them both at the same time, their fucking wet and messy, their hands digging in heedless of the bruises on his hips and wrists, the stitches in his side they tore to bleeding.

He minded the next guy not even bothering to lube him up, minded hearing, _you're just sloppy seconds today, aren't you kid._ He didn't understand most of the words, but he knew they were meant to be hurtful from the tone, and when he was finally brought back into the rooms where they were kept—where the rest of the whores sat waiting for their turn at the chopping block—he was too numb to cry. He just kept thinking of Seokjin, Seokjin's handsome face, his lips against his forehead, _we'll figure it out._

When he was offered the glass bowl the boy next to him was smoking he hesitated before shaking his head, wrapping himself up in his blanket. He'd get to shower in the morning (hopefully) and maybe by then he'd feel a little more human, a little less like a doll being played with and thrown back into a toybox.

But he never got his shower.

In the middle of the night came the sounds of violence—the meaty smack of fists, metal to skin, the unmistakable sound of Tiger cursing and shouting and screaming in what had to be pain. Yoongi wrapped himself up tighter in his blanket, pulled it over his head and squeezed his eyes closed, ignored the cum that had leaked out over his inner thighs while he slept and prayed it would stop soon.

And it did stop.

It stopped and Yoongi peeked out from the covers to watch as the door was unlocked and there was a man in the doorway with wild eyes and a baseball bat: a man with a grin that was so soft and bright that when he peeled back Yoongi's blanket, he couldn't make himself be afraid. “Hey,” he said, his voice rasping and sweet. “You Yoongi?”

“....yes,” he whispered.

“C'mon,” the guy said, offering out one hand. “Seokjin sent us.”

Yoongi blinked and slowly nodded, got up and staggered when the pain in his lower back and thighs throbbed. The guy held him up, a fierce look in his face, and after a moment he just lifted him up, chest-to-chest, while a second guy wrapped a sheet over his bare shoulders and tucked it in between Yoongi's thighs and the man's torso.

“C'mon, Vee,” the second guy said. “I got him locked up. You take him out to the car so we can get him home, I'm gonna get the rest of these kids out of here.”

The man holding him—Vee—nodded, and Yoongi squeaked when he put one hand on his head to tuck it into his neck. “Don't look,” he said, his voice a pleasant rumble against Yoongi's cheek and Yoongi closed his eyes, fisted his hands up a little tighter in the man's sweaty t-shirt. It smelled like blood. “Don't look, Yoongi. Don't look.”

He looked. Only for a second. But on the table by Tiger's bed was a pile of little yellow things, and the unmistakable gold of his grill, pulled free of his stinking mouth.

~

Gunwoo took one look at them and groaned, yanking the two—three—of them inside and motioning for them to sit down somewhere. “They're both gone,” Gunwoo said. “Seokjin won't be back until the morning, and—oh my _god,_ ” his gasp had all three of them looking at him and he forced himself to rein in the need to be sick, to open a bottle to forget everything the image of them bloody and bruised was bringing up in his head.

“You two go clean up in the basement shower,” Gunwoo said. “Get changed, put those clothes in the metal trash so I can burn'em. There's spares downstairs, help yourself.” They nodded, slowly leaving Yoongi alone on the couch, and Gunwoo moved to kneel in front of him. He hadn't missed his nakedness and there was no way to miss his bruises.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Yoongiyah.”

“Hyung,” Yoongi whispered, and Gunwoo reached out to cup his cheek, to stroke his thumb over the soft, soft skin. This poor fucking kid. God. Why?

“Bath?” he asked, offering his hands and giving a silent sigh of relief when Yoongi nodded, slowly getting up, unsteady on his feet. “There you go, easy, come here,” Gunwoo lifted him up, tucked him in close to his body and carried him to the bathroom attached to his room, with a big tub and strong shower. He didn't miss the wince when he set Yoongi down, didn't miss the way he whimpered when the sheet fell away.

“No,” he whimpered, scrambling to pull it back up, flushed with shame or fear, Gunwoo didn't know. “No, no,” he said over and over as Gunwoo turned on the hot water—added a packet of lavender and oatmeal bath salts, let him work through his trauma for a few moments before coming back to sit in front of him on the floor.

“Yoongiyah?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as gentle as he could. It'd been such a long time but there were some things Gunwoo had never managed to forget, no matter how hard he tried. “Yoongiyah, I need to get you cleaned up. Can I do that for you, please?”

Yoongi looked up and Gunwoo's heart broke all over again. His eyes were swollen, his lips bitten raw, his nose red and runny and all he did was nod before his face screwed up and he started to really, truly cry, with his back heaving and his voice choking. Gunwoo got up so the kid could have his shoulder, so he could grab onto his shirt while his sobbing was drowned out by the bathwater running. “Hyung,” he kept saying, his fists tightening and loosening and tightening, his eyes squeezed tight shut. “Hyung, hyung mianhae, mianhae—”

“No, oh no shh,” Gunwoo rocked him carefully, reached to turn off the water before the tub could get too full. In the silence, Yoongi's breathing was painfully rasping, a rake over gravel. “Shh, Yoongiyah. Don't be sorry.” He knew what _mianhae_ meant, anyway. It had been one of the first things Kisu had ever said to him. “Don't be sorry. You're hurt, it's okay to cry, it's okay. Shh,” he kissed his head and wished Reid was there to support him with this. God, it hurt so much. “Shh, it's okay. Hyung's got you, Yoongiyah,” he promised. “Hyung's got you.”

~

The motel had been a bloodbath.

Not in the _literal_ sense, except for Tiger's nasty-ass mouth. Taehyung had taken great pleasure in yanking that ugly grill right out of Tiger's face, in yanking out the yellowing teeth below with a pair of pliers while Hoseok held him down, gripped him so hard around the throat he nearly passed out. What he'd seen in the next room only justified his actions, as far as he was concerned. Tiger was a waste of air, of _skin,_ and if Taehyung ever saw his face again he was going to kill him. _Kill him,_ all those kids, those boys and girls Hoseok had led out of the place while Taehyung held Yoongi in the car, held his trembling body and listened to his muscles shake, felt him swallow back any tears over and over and over. Covered his eyes so he couldn't see what they'd done.

He stood naked in the basement bathroom—an apartment that Seokjin and Gunwoo had offered to them many times. The air was cold and the tile floor felt like ice as Hoseok turned the shower on and looked back at him over his shoulder.

“Tae?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer, not really feeling anything, just floating. There was blood on his hands, his shirt and his face. Sticking clumps of his hair together. The smell of Tiger's rotten teeth lingered where Hoseok had sealed them—and his grill—into a small mason jar for Seokjin, proof that they'd done what they were told to. He probably hadn't needed to take them but the satisfaction of looking at them, the reminder of what they'd accomplished, was visceral. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied. He knew Hoseok knew he was lying, because he came up behind him to lead him into the shower, hands on his waist, holding firm.

“Stay with me, Tae,” he said, and Taehyung didn't want to. He wanted to disappear off into his brain, he wanted to be someone else, somewhere else, he wanted to forget the fear in Yoongi's face when he pulled back the covers to make sure that pink hair belonged to the person they were looking for. He wanted to forget the smell of filth and wretchedness, he wanted to—

“Taehyung,” Hoseok said, and Taehyung looked at him. They were standing under the water now, their hair soaked, and Taehyung was lathered with soap that smelled like strawberries. “Baby. Hey.”

“Hoseok,” he said, choked a little and pushed his face into Hoseok's neck, feeling like he was going to be sick, be sick, sick sick _oh god_ —

Hoseok managed to get Taehyung turned around and bend him down, back to chest as he vomited into the bottom of the shower, the filmy stream of bile and saliva choking him as he heaved twice, three times, sobbed and collapsed in on himself. God. _God_ he'd done that, he'd hurt Tiger, ripped his teeth out of his mouth and _enjoyed it,_ would do it again if he could, because Tiger was the type of man who hurt people, because he hurt Yoongi, because men like him had hurt Taehyung, had hurt Sungoh, had—

He let Hoseok wash him. Let that strawberry body wash soak into his skin and let Hoseok's lips take him away from the memories that threatened to drown him, drag him under a riptide and never allow him to breathe again. Sungoh was gone. His older brother was gone and no amount of crying would ever bring him back.

“Hey, hey baby,” Hoseok cooed, tucking their bodies into the warm blankets of the full bed that took up one corner of the apartment. “Hey, it's okay, I'm right here. Stay with me Taehyung, stay with me baby.”

“Hoseok,” Taehyung whispered.

“Yeah baby,” he murmured in reply.

“I hate him.”

“I know.”

“I wish I'd killed him.”

“Seokjin told us not to,” Hoseok reminded.

“I don't care,” Taehyung heard his own voice hitch and squeezed his eyes closed. “He was so scared. He was so scared and fucking helpless and—”

“And now he's not there anymore,” Hoseok said. “Because you helped get him out. You helped all those kids get out, Taehyung. You did real good.”

“I want to do more.”

“When we can, baby. When we can, we will.”

“Hoseok?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we,” Taehyung whispered, crawling up on top of Hoseok, pressing bare chest to chest, resting his face in his neck and rocking their hips together. “Please?”

“You want to?” Hoseok asked, his hands on Taehyung's back, cradling, and Taehyung could have cried. Seokjin might have saved them from their destructive habits but Hoseok had pulled Taehyung out of the dumpster and into the sun. Hoseok had shown him love and Taehyung would never forget, would never never forget the moment when Hoseok leaned over him and kissed his nose and said _not tonight, baby. You don't really want it, do you? Try to be honest with me about that stuff, okay? I can go jack off in the bathroom, it's not a big deal. You can watch, if you want, but you don't have to let me touch you. Never. You know that, right?_

“Yeah,” he nodded, answering his memory and the moment in front of him with that breathless word. “Yeah.” Hoseok's hands gripped his backside and Taehyung wrapped his arms under Hoseok's shoulders to cup the back of his head, tilt it just so he could kiss the skin of his neck and ear. “Love me,” he asked, pushing his hips down into the firmness of Hoseok's belly.

“I do,” Hoseok promised, as he had so many times before. “I do.”

~

Seokjin came home to silence. It was dark and the house was cool and quiet, the hum of the air conditioners the only noise. There was a note on the kitchen table in Gunwoo's unmistakable handwriting: _yoongi in bed with me, seok & tae downstairs, kisu spending the night with hui. come in when you get home._

The walk down to Gunwoo's bedroom was easy. But he stood at the door for a moment, terrified of what he was going to see when he opened it, though he wasn't sure why. If Yoongi was here it meant he was safe. It meant that he was in one piece, hopefully unharmed. Hopefully.

He pushed the door open and saw that Gunwoo was asleep, sitting up against the headboard with Yoongi's head resting on his chest. His dark hair fell into his face and his hands were on his phone, and Yoongi was curled up against his body, wrapped in blankets independent of where Gunwoo was under the sheets. He jerked awake when Seokjin took a step into the room, eyes wide and frantic and Seokjin gave a sheepish smile, put his finger to his lips.

“Sorry,” he whispered, creeping into the bedroom a little further so he could offer out a hand. Yoongi took it and Seokjin tried not to notice the bruises all over him. “You were asleep.”

“Hyung was... Talking,” Yoongi said. “I slept.”

“Mm, his voice has that effect on people,” Seokjin laughed and got onto the bed. “Mind if I come to bed?”

“No,” Yoongi whispered, stretching out his fingers to grab Seokjin's shirt. “Please, come.”

Seokjin crept into the bed and curled up behind Yoongi—spooned his little cocoon and tucked his cheek to his shoulder, let his arm rest lightly on his waist until Yoongi reached to grab it and hold on tight, his fingers cold.

“Hyung?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Seokjin replied, drowsy from his appointment but wanting to pay attention to whatever it was Yoongi needed.

“...thank you.”

“...you're welcome.”

 


	4. It's Love That Makes a House a Home.

Yoongi jerked into wakefulness so hard he snapped Gunwoo's bottom teeth up against his top. He stammered apologies while Gunwoo hummed them off, closed his eyes and settled back down—a bruise on the jaw was hardly anything to get worked up about, he mumbled. Regardless, Yoongi still tried to be very quiet as he crept out of bed and into the living room—jumped when he heard a coffee mug hit the counter.

“You're awake,” Seokjin said gently.

“Yes,” Yoongi replied.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“...yes,” he said, moving closer. Coffee. He hadn't had coffee in _forever._ When Seokjin offered him a mug he took it in his hands and cupped it close to his face, sighing quietly. “Mm.”

“Don't make any satisfied noises yet, it might taste like shit,” Seokjin replied, leaning back into the counter. Yoongi shook his head and took a sip. It was black, thick but not too bitter and he smiled across the fornica to Seokjin. “So it doesn't taste like shit?”

“No,” Yoongi almost giggled. He felt light. He felt... Free. He didn't have to have sex with anyone. He wasn't going to get slapped around or hit or starved. He was sitting in a kitchen having coffee with another adult and that... That felt good. Really good, better than he ever could have imagined it. “It tastes good.”

“Good.”

For a moment they stood there in silence. Yoongi sipped his coffee while Seokjin gulped down his own, leaning into the counter with his eyes half-open. “You look sleepy, hyung,” Yoongi said gently, struggling to recall all the English he knew so he could communicate with Seokjin better. The older man's Korean was nowhere near as good as Kisu's, but he wanted...

He wanted to be able to talk to him.

“I am sleepy,” Seokjin laughed, pushed away from the counter and headed into the living area, settling into the couch and motioning for Yoongi to join him. “Sit wherever,” he said, but Yoongi settled himself into the curve of Seokjin's side just because of how good it felt to be able to be there at all without having to worry about being dragged up for a bite or a kiss or a smack to the mouth. He could just stay there, drink his coffee, watch the window.

“So,” Seokjin said, after a long while of their coffee cups being empty, after he'd pulled a throw blanket over their legs. “What do you want to do now, huh?”

“What... Do you mean?” Yoongi asked, blinking up at him.

“Well, do... I mean, do you want to go home? Back to Korea?”

Yoongi felt something in him pull tight at the thought of returning to Korea. Returning home. His friends were there, yes, but. But so were his parents. And the society that made him feel so excluded and hated that he'd agreed to go with the strangers in the first place. He missed it, he supposed: missed the loud markets and the squawking old women in alleyways, missed his beloved but hopeless older brother. But going back would mean trying to fit himself into a place where he didn't— _couldn't—_ fit anymore. Not knowing what he knew, not having seen... What he'd seen. What had been done to him.

“I don't think so,” he said softly. “Can...” he hesitated. It was selfish to ask. It was selfish and foolish: Kisu and Gunwoo and Seokjin all had lives of their own, they were... A unit, and he didn't have the right to even ask if he could stay there with him. He was a child here, a dependent. He would be a burden on them, in more ways than one.

“You can, you know,” Seokjin hummed, draping his arm over Yoongi's shoulders and speaking into his hair. “You can stay here, with us. You don't have to go back. Gunwoo can get papers for you. He's good at that shit. He got them for Kisu.”

That was what Kisu had said, that Gunwoo helped him be able to stay. Yoongi bit at the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“Are you sure, hyung,” he asked, turning his head to peek up at Seokjin through his bangs and feeling breathless with how beautiful he was, with how soft his expression, how warm his eyes and smile. “It's... I mean.”

“I'm sure,” he promised. “We'll... Work out the details later, but if you want to stay, Yoongi. You can stay.”

“Yoongiyah,” he said, feeling his cheeks blush.

“What?”

“Like... Seokjinah, but. Yoongiyah.”

“Aah,” Seokjin nodded. “I see.”

Silence fell like snow and Yoongi started to drift off to sleep, his head dropping down onto Seokjin's shoulder. He felt himself being lifted and didn't fight the way he was carried back into the bedroom, tucked into the sheets while Gunwoo mumbled out a question and Seokjin whispered back. He couldn't quite catch the words. All he heard was Seokjin's voice near his ear as the warm, muffled blanket of sleep tugged the rest of the way over him.

_Goodnight, Yoongiyah._

~

Seokjin knew, logically, that it was going to come up at some point. Even with Gunwoo getting the paperwork together, even with Reid helping him, Yoongi was going to have to go to school come fall, because none of them were legal guardians and he couldn't _not_ go, unless they wanted a truancy officer coming to the house to harass them and that would be quite possibly the worst thing ever.

Still. Watching Gunwoo drive off with Yoongi in the front seat was nerve wracking as all hell, like Yoongi was _his_ kid, a little kid. He was _seventeen._

He was _seventeen_ and had more than once leaned in close like he wanted to kiss Seokjin before the older man gently guided him away. It wasn't that Yoongi wasn't pretty, especially now that he'd put on some weight and didn't look like he was starving to death. They'd dyed his hair black and he liked to keep it on the long side, silky and soft tucked under a beanie. He was seventeen and he wasn't shy about wanting to sleep with Seokjin. Wanting more from Seokjin than the strange relationship they had now: something like guide and mentor, except with a lot more sexual tension.

But he was still seventeen and it was still illegal, no matter how much both of them wanted it, as Gunwoo had reminded him quietly. _All it takes is one slip up at school and they'll drag you to prison, Seokjin._ He wasn't wrong, that was the worst part.

Still.

Waiting at home for Yoongi to get back was torture. While he had a few clients during the day, most of his appointments were at night; he'd rearranged his schedule to be able to see Yoongi for a few hours when he got back, hoping that school hadn't been too cruel to him. It was shitty to start at a new school, shitty to be a foreign student, shitty to be alone.

Judging from the closed-off and uncomfortable look on his face, school had been just as bad as Seokjin had feared.

“Hey,” Seokjin asked, offering his arms out when Yoongi dropped Kisu's old backpack in the front hall. Yoongi folded himself into his grip and Seokjin rocked him gently, kissed his hair. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I hate it,” Yoongi whispered, though his eyes were dry. “Everyone's... Assholes.”

“Well. Yeah,” Seokjin sighed, sitting on the couch. “High schoolers are douchebags no matter where you are, Yoongiyah.” The nickname seemed to soothe some of Yoongi's ruffled feathers and he relaxed in Seokjin's arms, tucking his face into his neck and sighing. Seokjin gave his hair one more kiss.

It went on like that for weeks. Yoongi came home, folded in close to whoever was there to greet him and struggled through his homework—elementary level english, high level math. _Numbers are the same in every language,_ he'd said, smiling down at his test, a big red 100 across the top.

~

Yoongi didn't attempt to make another significant advance towards Seokjin until after the term was over in early December. He was waiting for Seokjin at home, laying in his bed, nude under the sheets as the older man slid between them. He reached out one small hand and Seokjin grabbed his wrist, as gently as he could.

“No,” he murmured, and Yoongi made a soft noise of displeasure. “Sorry, baby.” A kiss to the forehead wasn't enough to placate Yoongi, who frowned a little harder and pulled his hand away, turning onto his other side, facing away from Seokjin and out into the room at large. “Yoongiyah,” he hummed, carding his hand through Yoongi's dark hair. “Come on. You know I can't.”

“You won't,” Yoongi mumbled.

“Can't,” Seokjin replied, pulling Yoongi back to him. He was wearing briefs, so Yoongi's bare ass cradled the bulge of cloth at his groin and he sighed. “Do you think I wouldn't fuck you if I could? It's illegal.”

“ _I'm_ illegal,” Yoongi said, still pouting as he turned his head and looked over his shoulder at Seokjin while Seokjin's hand rested on his waist. The older man made a very put-upon groan and bent to kiss Yoongi's shoulder.

“I can't fuck you,” he said. “I can't put my hands on you, Yoongiyah, but,” he laughed, kissed the back of Yoongi's neck. “What you do to me is your business.” Technicalities. And it was still illegal. But as a sex worker it felt stupid to be holding out on his younger charge. It had been months of Yoongi's hurt pouting and he was a seventeen year old man: Seokjin knew he had to be getting off at least once every couple of days. He didn't really see a point in telling Yoongi that he couldn't... Use Seokjin as a tool to get off. They just couldn't put their hands on one another.

It took Yoongi a minute to catch Seokjin's drift. Then he turned a little more and looked up at him as though to make sure it was really okay before he got up on his hands and knees and pushed Seokjin onto his back, carefully straddling over his hips. “So this is... Okay?” he asked, the sheets falling down his back to wrap around his hips and the tops of his thighs. His bare cock was already starting to get hard as he sat there.

“Yes,” Seokjin replied, tucking his own hands behind his head as Yoongi settled, resting his hands on the bed beside Seokjin's waist and looking down at where they touched, slowly rocking his hips. Seokjin felt the tip of his length catch on the material of his underwear, felt Yoongi getting hard as he rocked, rubbed himself against Seokjin with a little sound of pleasure, cheek pressed to his shoulder as he watched. “Feels good, Yoongiyah,” Seokjin said, and Yoongi swallowed, sat up a little and looked up at him. “Touch yourself for me. Show me how you like it.”

Yoongi turned the most darling shade of pink. Seokjin hummed, stretching his back and watching as Yoongi sat up and reached down, one hand smoothing over his bare chest to slide down to his cock, wrapping his fingers around the length of it and giving a soft tug, pulling back his foreskin to show the ruddy, wet tip. Seokjin groaned, unable to think of much other than sucking that cock into his mouth and sucking: he pushed his hips up and Yoongi gasped, braced one hand on Seokjin's belly for balance. “Hyung,” he breathed, staring glassy-eyed down at Seokjin as he stroked slow, fingers rubbing over his tip on every upstroke.

“That's right,” Seokjin said, fisting his hands into his own hair behind his head. “Show me how you like that, that's it. God, look at your cock.” Seokjin couldn't help but speak: if he couldn't touch, he wanted to at least make sure that Yoongi knew how desperately Seokjin wanted him: that the desire went both ways. “Shit, Yoongiyah, you're so _hard._ ”

“Hyung,” Yoongi rocked up and down, his weight a gentle pressure on Seokjin's thighs and groin. Just barely enough stimulation to be infuriating when he couldn't settle where Seokjin wanted him to, when his knuckles brushed over Seokjin's clothed dick with every stroke. “Hyung, you're hard too.”

“Yeah,” Seokjin nodded: no point in denying it, Yoongi was practically sitting on the proof. “Yeah, Yoongiyah, I'm hard. Just from you doing that, looking so pretty while you stroke your cock for me.” Yoongi flushed from chest to hairline and Seokjin gave a breathless laugh. “Can't wait, Yoongiyah, I can't wait to flip you over and _fuck you_ into this bed.”

“ _Hyung,_ ” Yoongi whined, one hand squeezing around his length while the other reached back to pull up one cheek—he took a moment to reposition himself, found the little wet spot on Seokjin's briefs and settled himself on it with a groan, wiggling his hips down. Seokjin grunted, snapped his hips up and felt his cock cradled right where he wanted to be—tucked up between Yoongi's cheeks, pushing against the warmth between his legs. Yoongi's weight was light and Seokjin bent his knees, brought them up for Yoongi to lean back into.

“Aah, shit Yoongiyah,” Seokjin hissed, watching Yoongi's eyes get wider and darker, watching his fingers come close to his lips and leaning his neck to suck them into his mouth. Yoongi grunted, his hand on his cock moving faster as he bounced his weight back onto Seokjin's clothed cock, supported by his thighs. Seokjin ran his tongue over Yoongi's narrow fingers—sucked softly and bit at his knuckles, watched Yoongi watching him.

“Hyung,” Yoongi breathed out. “Hyung, I want... I want you to _fuck me,_ ” he panted, and Seokjin hummed around his fingers. “I want, want to feel your, god your _cock_ in me, so hard, oh...” Yoongi's head dropped and Seokjin released his fingers, though they stayed close to his lips.

“Yeah,” Seokjin breathed. “Yeah, I know you do, baby. I know you want me on you, fucking you, god Yoongi I promise I'll fuck you so good you won't be sitting for _days._ So good you're gonna cum from just _sitting_ on my dick, sweet boy.”

The pressure of Yoongi's weight on his groin was making Seokjins' head spin, if he was honest. He was light, the curve of his ass comfortable on his clothed dick and the way he moved—a slow, rocking bounce that would have their skin slapping together... God.

“Fuck me,” Yoongi whispered, and Seokjin couldn't help but frown. “Hyung,” Yoongi asked again, slapping his hand down onto his own thigh and moaning loudly into the still air of the room. “ _Please._ ”

“Get up,” Seokjin asked, carefully pushing himself up and moving to the headboard. He laid down with his head up on his stacked pillows, legs stretched out in front of him, and motioned for Yoongi to come closer. “C'mere.”

“Hyung?”

“I'm not gonna fuck you,” Seokjin said, flushed and panting and _god_ he wanted to fuck Yoongi. Wanted to pin him down and fuck him slow and deep, to suck his pretty lips and wrap his mouth around his cock when he came, wanted to know what the pulse of his dick felt like between his lips. Wanted to know the tight clenching of his rim against his tongue. He couldn't have everything he wanted, but he could have some of it. “Not with my dick.”

“Wh—?”

“C'mere,” he said again, carefully turning Yoongi around, motioning for him to move back, to get on all fours and get comfortable. “Lemme get my mouth on that ass.” It took Yoongi a moment to catch the drift but when he did, the sound he made was absolutely inhuman. His thighs shook and Seokjin traced his lips over the curve of his backside, pressing warm kisses to the pale skin. He still wasn't putting his hands on Yoongi's body, just watching him as he settled, his cock on Seokjin's chest, his mouth on the cut of his groin and thigh. “Open up,” Seokjin said, licking between Yoongi's cheeks and smirking when the younger man reached back with both hands to do just that.

Yoongi was tight, the skin hot and Seokjin pressed his tongue to the tight clench, rubbed gently over the sensitive skin. He felt Yoongi's fingers tense up, felt him moan against the material of his briefs and rolled his eyes closed, tracing his lips over the insides of his cheeks, kissing down to the curve at the back of his thigh, giving his balls a quick little lick that made Yoongi's entire body heave, hips pressing down onto Seokjin's chest, teeth biting into Seokjins' inner thigh. He tried to push back and Seokjin's tongue was waiting for him.

Hands safe behind his back, Seokjin fucked his tongue into Yoongi's ass, rather relished in how his younger lover was falling apart, how his open mouth tongued and kissed at the bulge in his briefs but didn't try to remove the cloth, didn't try to do more than Seokjin had given him permission for, at least until the smears of precum on Seokjin's chest were enough to slide down towards his belly, until Yoongi was pushing back against his mouth and groaning, hands on Seokjin's thighs.

“Hyung,” he panted, his cheek on Seokjins' thigh. “Hyung please please please, _please,_ ”

Seokjin groaned, carefully shouldered Yoongi away, onto his hands and knees. “I'm not fucking you,” Seokjin said, more to himself than anyone else as he got up onto his knees and tucked his clothed cock against Yoongi's ass. “I'm not fucking you,” he murmured as he bumped his hips forward, as he reached down and around to stroke Yoongi's cock, his fingers resting on top of Yoongi's own while the young man panted and moaned out his name. All he could think was how good it would be to finally fuck Yoongi—to pin him to any surface and bury his dick into his ass, his mouth, any part of him he wanted while Yoongi, god, while he looked up at him with those flushed cheeks and bright eyes and called him _hyung_ and clung to him when he came. “ _Fuck_ m'gonna cum, shit, _shit,”_ One hand reached to pull down the waistband of his briefs and Seokjin watched as his tip slid over Yoongi's rim, as he came in hot spits over the soft, raw skin and listened to Yoongi mewl with his shoulders to the bed and his ass up in the air.

“Hyung,” he whined, and Seokjin pushed his hips forward a little harder. “ _Hyung._ ”

“C'mon baby,” he hummed, carefully pulling Yoongi up onto his knees with an arm braced over his chest, still following Yoongi's fingers as he jerked himself off. “Show me. Let hyung see you cum.” Seokjin did watch. He watched, attention sharp as sleet as Yoongi arched his back forward, threw his head back onto Seokjin's shoulder and tugged his hand up to the tip of his cock to catch the mess in his fingers—to stroke his tip until the worst of his trembling stopped and he brought their fingers up to his mouth to suck them clean. “Naughty,” Seokjin chuckled, reaching between them to slide his fingers through his own mess, letting his fingers linger between Yoongi's cheeks before bringing them up for his mouth. To his delight Yoongi sucked the digits clean: eager and panting and struggling to turn around. Seokjin finally let him, reached down to cup his ass and tug him in close when Yoongi grabbed his shoulders and craned his neck to kiss him.

“Hyung.”

God, they kissed.

Slick and salty, soft tongues and hard teeth, Seokjin kissed Yoongi like he'd wanted to kiss him that first time he saw how soft he was beneath all that filth. Carefully, he eased them down to the bed. Carefully, he pulled Yoongi in close and sucked at his lip, his neck, his ear until the younger man's fingernails dug into Seokjin's shoulders.

“You're so beautiful,” Yoongi whispered, taking in Seokjin's face with his bright, glassy eyes. Seokjin laughed, kissed his eyelids and the tip of his nose.

“Go to sleep.”

~

“So. Was that your birthday present? He's loud."

“Shut the fuck up,” Seokjin had the decency to flush when Gunwoo's eyebrow cocked up to his hairline, even as Reid stood behind him and laughed. “Don't make that face at me, you've got no place to talk, not with him standing close enough to have his dick in you right now.”

“You're such a petty bitch,” Gunwoo replied, his hands resting on Reid's arms. “Besides, you'd know if I had his dick in my ass, believe me.”

“Oh I know,” Seokjin mumbled, still flushed at the idea that Gunwoo had heard him and Yoongi the other night—after all of his promising that he wasn't going to get sexually involved with him until he was of age. It was such a grey area. They wanted each other, but was Yoongi really mature enough to understand? Was Seokjin taking advantage of him? Was he being a complete fucking predator?

Kisu had told him he was being ridiculous. _You want him, he wants you... Let it be, Seokjin. Let yourselves have it while you can._ While you can... It was a scary thought for Seokjin. He kept forgetting that Yoongi could be taken away at any moment. By Child Protective Services, by the police, by the Korean government. So many things could be possible for ripping them apart so it was hard not to give as much of himself to Yoongi as he could while they still had time.

It was hard not to give of himself when he'd rather spend time with Yoongi than with clients. He still spent five nights a week on the prowl but he wanted his business done quickly so he could get home to the teenager warming his bed.

God, Yoongi was a _teenager._

He didn't act like one. Didn't behave like one in any way. His progress reports—which had been sent every two weeks since he was an ESL student—had nothing but praise for him, how well he studied, how quickly he was learning and picking up English. He still spoke Korean with Kisu, but talking with Gunwoo and Seokjin was getting easier for him.

Which on the one hand, was good.

And on the other hand.

“Why won't you be my boyfriend, hyung,” Yoongi asked, standing in the doorway to Seokjin's bedroom and looking very much like a kicked puppy. Seokjin winced and sat up—it was Sunday night, so he was off the street for the evening, but if he'd known he'd have to deal with this conversation, he would have stayed out. At least until Yoongi went to bed.

“Look. Yoongiyah, it's not... It's not that I won't _want_ to.”

“So why not?”

“Because... Look, it's complicated.”

“Why.”

“Because it's _illegal._ ”

“But if I don't say, and you don't say, then why?”

“Because all it takes is one person calling CPS and you'll get taken away and sent to who the fuck knows where, that's why,” Seokjin said, feeling terrible for the hard tone of his voice. He knew it made Yoongi nervous, speaking like that, but god, they had this conversation every two days, practically, and he just...

He just wanted Yoongi to leave it alone until March. March ninth. He wanted Yoongi to just leave it alone but he didn't mean to make him flinch, to make him hug himself, to make him look at the floor with his brow furrowed tightly. “Yoongi. Yoongiyah.”

“I'm going to Kisu hyungs,” he said in a rush, disappearing upstairs faster than Seokjin could stop him.

~

Kisu didn't bother asking what was bothering Yoongi. He knew. He knew Seokjin felt like he had to be responsible, had to... Save Yoongi from him somehow, or whatever, but the two of them were so close—engaged in sexual activity once a week or so, and even if it wasn't actual _sex,_ it meant just as much as sex would have, at least to Yoongi, who was currently face-down on Kisu's bed with his head buried under a pillow like the rest of the world would stop turning if he stayed there long enough.

“Yoongiyah,” Kisu hummed, climbing onto the bed and tickling his fingers over the young man's ribs. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“Why doesn't he want to be with me,” Yoongi asked, yanking his head out from under the pillow and sitting up straight, his eyes red and a little bit puffy. “Why will he have sex with me but not be my boyfriend. What's his _problem._ ”

“Well, there's a lot of legal stuff involved, like... If the two of you went out on a date, and someone from school saw you, like another student or a teacher, he's get in a lot of trouble, because you're technically under the age of consent—”

“I'm eighteen!”

“In _Korean_ years, Yoongiyah. Here you're still seventeen so you have to suck it up till March.”

“But it's only _December,_ ” Yoongi whined, kicking his legs like a small child having a fit. Kisu felt both truly sympathetic and also very amused. Yoongi was such a kid. It was nice though, that he was behaving more like the young man he was instead of a scared rabbit. He was opinionated and brassy, his humor was dry and Kisu hoped he got better at English just so he could translate all of himself into a language that Seokjin could appreciate.

“It's only December, hyung,” Yoongi whispered, tucking one leg up close to his chest and hugging it, frowning. “And Seokjin hyung... He's...” he trailed off and Kisu took pity, sitting on the bed with him.

“A sex worker?” he supplied, and Yoongi flushed deeply, probably with shame. “So am I, Yoongiyah.”

“I know! I know, it's not, it's not that I mind, it's not that, it's just. What if he finds... Someone he likes more?” he said it so quietly that Kisu almost missed it. “What if... he still doesn't like me in March?”

“Then you tell him to fuck himself and find someone else,” Kisu replied, even as he knew that wasn't how it would work. Yoongi had an attachment to Seokjin that had very little to do with their sexual attraction and very much to do with the fact that he viewed him as a savior, despite all of his flaws. Seokjin, prickly and haughty Seokjin, had lifted Yoongi up and Yoongi adored him for it. Kisu had a suspicion it wouldn't be something he recovered from. At least, not easily. And certainly not over the words, _fuck yourself._

Yoongi looked hurt, so Kisu wrapped an arm around him.

“I don't think he's gonna find someone else, Yoongiyah,” he said. “Definitely no one as cute as you, anyway.”

“There's someone at school,” Yoongi said, sounding like all the air was rushing out of his lungs.

“...And?”

“And he, he keeps... Cornering me, in the hallways and at lunch. I usually sit with, with everyone else you know, Takuya, Cao Lu, Yixing, Kunpimook and Ka Yi but he sometimes gets to me before I can get into the lunch room and he won't leave me alone, hyung, he won't listen when I say _no_.”

“He scares you.” There was a moment of silence and Kisu felt his blood pressure spike.

“...yes,” Yoongi replied. “He's... he's nice, I guess, but he... Makes me feel weird and I don't like it and I just...”

Ah. _Ah._

“You want to be able to say you have a boyfriend without lying to him when you get back to school. So he'll leave you alone.”

Yoongi nodded and Kisu hugged him with one arm, pressed his cheek to his hair. “Have you asked any of the boys at school?” Yoongi shook his head. “Because you don't want them to think you actually want to date them, right?”

“Ka Yi is really nice, but he's already dating Namjoon... Yixing is with Kris, Cao Lu has a boyfriend back in China,”

“I get it,” Kisu said, pushing back Yoongi's hair. “Listen. If he does anything weird you go find a teacher immediately, okay? Don't let him put his hands on you. Even if you don't understand everything he's saying, the second he makes you uncomfortable, get away from him. Shout if you need to, kick him in the junk.” He paused. “Have you even told Seokjin about this?”

“He'll think it's stupid,” Yoongi whispered.

“No, he won't. Don't be silly, Yoongiyah. You know he cares about you a lot and if you're uncomfortable at school then he'll want to fix it.”

“Can he, though?” It was a fair question. “Can he even say anything? I should be able to take care of myself, I was, I was sold into fucking _slavery,_ I was, I was r—” Yoongi choked himself off and squeezed his eyes closed and Kisu reached to pull him in before he could try and run away from what he was feeling. The root of all of this was Yoongi's fear. Fear of not being wanted, of being unloved because of what had happened to him—fear of what happened to him. He had every right to be afraid and Kisu would never dream of telling him otherwise. He'd said that he thought school was an unwise idea but Yoongi had insisted that he could do it but if it was going to do was turn him into a nervous wreck, if he was going to spend every day looking over his shoulder and constantly on the edge of an anxiety attack, it was time to call it done, somehow.

“It's okay,” Kisu murmured when Yoongi tried to fight his grip while at the same time fisting his hands in Kisu's sweater. “It's okay, Yoongiyah. You're home, you're safe. You're safe.”

“I want, I want to be _normal,_ ” Yoongi gasped out between choked-down sobs. “I want, I want it to _go away,_ I don't, make it go away please hyung, _please._ ”

Kisu sat there, holding Yoongi in his lap and rocking him. Listened to Yoongi beg him to make it untrue, to make it undone, and hated that there was nothing he could do or say to make it hurt less.

There was no magical solution.

There was no way to fix it, only to make it better—and that took patience and time and love.

Luckily, Yoongi was surrounded on all sides by people who had endless amounts of all of those things.

~

It was three days before Christmas and Yoongi was spending the night at Namjoon's house.

After meeting Namjoon's parents and agreeing that it was all right, Gunwoo had given Kisu and Seokjin the heads up that Yoongi would be out, and that he would be with Reid for the night so it was just the two of them at the house with their small Christmas tree, the little smattering of small gifts in gold paper. Just the two of them, and Kisu was lounging nude on his bed, looking like something out of a softcore porno magazine as he idly rocked his hips into the bed.

“You're fucking gross,” Seokjin laughed, coming to join him with a bowl of cut strawberries and white chocolate sauce. Their little treat, when the two of them were alone. Between Seokjin's repressed feelings for Yoongi, and Kisu's own lack of sexual attention, the two of them were due for some alone time.

“You say that, but you're going to fuck me anyway,” Kisu replied, looking at Seokjin over his shoulder and smirking.

“I am,” Seokjin replied, climbing on top of Kisu to be laying over him, back to chest, groin to ass. Kisu groaned in protest but took the strawberry Seokjin offered him with his fingers, sucking the chocolate sauce away from the skin. “God, you're too much.”

“Just enough,” Kisu replied, taking Seokjin's hand and sucking his fingers into his mouth, moaning gently. He felt Seokjin's cock twitch against his ass and traced the digits with his teeth, trying to lift his hips up.

“Eager, aren't you?” Seokjin grumbled, biting at his shoulders. “Christ, I just got here.”

“I haven't had sex in a _week and a half,_ ” Kisu complained. “New Guy is just. Having me come to events. No sex, not even any _kissing._ ” He pouted up at Seokjin over his shoulder. “I'm being _neglected._ ”

“You're not, I'm right here,” Seokjin laughed, getting up onto his hands and knees. “Turn over for me, hyung.”

Kisu turned into putty. He always did, when Seokjin called him hyung. There was something so viscerally satisfying about it. He turned over onto his back and spread his legs open and shivered when Seokjin felt between them for the base of the plug they both knew he was wearing. He laughed—it turned into a moan when Seokjin pushed the plug in and pulled it back in and back. “Tell me about your new guy,” Seokjin said, and Kisu bit his lip, turned his head to one side. “Younger or older?”

“Younger,” he breathed. “Ch.. Chinese. Heir of some kind— _ah—_ it pisses, pisses his parents offfffuck Seokjin do that _again_ —”

Seokjin took the base of the plug and angled it down—turned it in a slow, hard circle. “He won't fuck you?”

“ _No,_ ” Kisu whined, arching his back. “God, he, he sucked me off in the car, wouldn't, wouldn't let me suck him, touch him, _nothing._ ”

“Sounds like an asshole,” Seokjin hummed, idly rubbing his cock against Kisu's thigh while Kisu licked and bit at the strawberries Seokjin was holding to his mouth. “Don't know how someone wouldn't want to fuck you, hyung, you're so fucking gorgeous.”

“He,” Kisu laughed, yelped when Seokjin pulled out the plug and set it aside, giving himself a pump of lubricant before getting between Kisu's long legs. “He calls, calls me _gege._ ”

“Oh,” Seokjin smirked, pushing his dick into his older friend with a grin. “He likes you enough to call you gege, hyung?”

“Oh shit, shit, Jinah, that feels good,” Kisu was arching up off the bed and raising his arms over his head to fist in the pillows. “Mmm.”

“I think you just like it when I call you gege,” he murmured, sinking in and groaning when Kisu's body settled comfortably in the blankets. “Are you imagining him, gege?”

“You talk more than he does,” Kisu laughed, urging Seokjin down so they could kiss. He wrapped his arms over Seokjin's shoulders and let their lips slip together, let their tongues touch. He moaned softly, opened his thighs a little wider to let Seokjin closer, wrapping his legs over the back of Seokjin's thighs to hold him in place.

“But, Jinah,” he said, squeezing down and grinning when Seokjin's hips kicked. “I'm not the only one thinking of someone else, am I.”

“No,” Seokjin admitted, sucking softly at Kisu's fat bottom lip and hating himself for telling the truth. “You're not.”

~

Gunwoo had been elected to be Yoongi's official guardian—his older cousin, who adopted Yoongi when his parents passed away—when they'd enrolled him in school. So it was Gunwoo who went down to the school in early February when there was a phone call about Yoongi getting violent with another student.

He put on his most professional outfit—a suit that fit his body like a glove, his hair half-tied back, his makeup flawless as he walked into the principal's office and asked where he could find his cousin. Yoongi was in the inner office, pale and shivering while the boy across the room smirk-glared and turned the expression onto Gunwoo when he walked in.

Gunwoo ignored the principal's greeting and instead crouched in front of Yoongi to ask in hushed Korean if he was okay. Yoongi shook his head, managed to get out, _he tried to touch me, he scared me, I didn't mean to make a scene I just shoved him he scared me please don't be mad_ before Gunwoo felt a righteous rage flare up in his belly.

“ _Mister_ Lee, if you would please pay attention,” the man was saying, and Gunwoo turned his eyes to him. “We are looking to discuss proper punishment for the altercation between Yoongi and Shea, but Yoongi is uncooperative. Shea says he didn't do anything _untoward_ and that Yoongi just punched him.”

Gunwoo knew he could have a very disturbing face. His eyes were very large, his mouth quite small and his eyebrows were plucked to perfection, fierce and sharp. He could see the principal wilting under his gaze. Good. “Did any of you even try to speak to Yoongi about what happened, or are you just taking his word for it.” He nodded his head towards Shea and the principal spluttered something about not having any witnesses to the event. Gunwoo didn't stop there.

“Is it because he's Korean? You couldn't be bothered to find one of the other Korean speaking students to help him talk about this? Because from what I've just been told, this boy tried to put his hands on Yoongi?”

“That's,” the man started, and the boy across the room looked perturbed.

“You're telling me that this boy _put his hands_ on my cousin, who shoved him away, and you're looking to punish Yoongi? For defending himself?”

“That's not what happened,” the man said, and Gunwoo drew himself up. Pushed his shoulders back.

“You sound so sure of that, but there are no witnesses? You'll be hearing from my lawyers,” he said, turning to Yoongi to motion to his bag and jacket. “Unbelievable. There are at least fifteen other Korean students in this high school and you couldn't be bothered to get _any_ of them to help Yoongi, even though you're all aware of his troubles with English.”

“Mister Lee, that's a bit much—”

“Is it?” Gunwoo rounded on the man, stared at him without blinking. “It's a bit much that you couldn't be bothered to get Kim Namjoon to help Yoongi talk about what happened because what, they're friends? Because Namjoon couldn't be trusted to translate anything Yoongi said without bias? It's a bit much that you're taking that boys word for it—why. Because he's white? Because he's a native English speaker? Because it was too much fucking trouble to help Yoongi?”

Silence.

Silence, and Gunwoo turned to Yoongi, offered him the protection of his arm. Yoongi shuttered himself in close to his body and Gunwoo hugged his shoulders. “I'll be withdrawing Yoongi this afternoon. You'll have the paperwork on your desk in the morning.”

“Mister Lee—”

“Enough,” he said, silencing the man. The boy across the room looked just barely terrified enough for Gunwoo to be satisfied. “Come on, Yoongiyah.”

Gunwoo led Yoongi out to the car. He drove them home in tense silence and when they were inside the house—when the door was closed Yoongi dropped his backpack off his shoulder and all but collapsed into Gunwoo's chest, silent tears squeezed out of his eyes as he tried to keep his breathing steady.

“Oh, oh Yoongiyah it's okay,” Gunwoo led him to the couch, sat down with him. “I'm sorry, I know you like going to school, but—”

“I hate it,” Yoongi said. “It's, only the ESL class, they—they're the only thing.”

“I'll see about you being able to attend that one class then. It's in the morning, right? You can take the bus with Namjoon in the morning and we can pick you up after class.”

“No, that's so much trouble,”

“I don't care,” Gunwoo said, cupping Yoongi's face in his hands. “I don't care how much trouble it is. You deserve to feel safe, Yoongiyah. You deserve to feel like you can be somewhere without getting—without getting _attacked._ He tried to touch you?” Yoongi nodded. “Where.”

“He was... Trying to hug me, I guess? Or... I don't know, it all happened so fast.”

Hugs didn't happen fast. Gunwoo could take a guess about what happened but he didn't want to. “Well. We're not gonna worry about it for now, okay? Come on. Lets get you taken care of... I'll deal with the paperwork. Why don't you get in the shower and get changed? Seokjin should be home soon, I bet he'd love to spend some time with you. And Yoongiyah,”

Yoongi paused in the front hallway, holding the doorframe in one hand.

“You should tell him what happened. He'll want to know, so he can take care of you properly.”

~

It really had happened too fast. Yoongi had been in the hallway, getting ready to jog after Yixing when Shea had bullied him against the lockers and tried to... Wrap his arms around him? Pin him? Kiss him? Yoongi hadn't taken the time to figure it out. He'd shoved Shea as hard as he could the second he felt crowded, panting for breath out of fear. Shea hadn't faltered far and he'd come back at Yoongi, shoved him into the lockers, slammed his hands against the metal on either side of Yoongi's head and Yoongi had tried to get away. To duck under his arm only to be grabbed around the waist and he'd panicked completely—shouted and turned and _pushed_ as hard as he could. Shea had fallen into the lockers with a loud sound and then people had come out to stare and Yoongi had... Turned off.

He'd been numb and unresponsive as he was brought to the principal's office by the strap of his backpack, led along like some kind of animal. The principal had yelled but all Yoongi _heard_ was noise, just like when Tiger yelled, when clients yelled. It was just white noise until Gunwoo's voice broke the silence and everything came crashing down around him. He just wanted to go home and once he was home, he just wanted to shower and go to bed.

So he did.

He showered, numbly scrubbing his skin with the coconut bodywash Kisu had gotten him from the bodyshop. Used the coconut shampoo and conditioner. Gotten out of the shower and used coconut body butter on his skin and folded himself into a full set of pajamas before curling up in Seokjin's bed. It was usually a toss-up as to whose bed he ended up in: sometimes Kisu, sometimes Gunwoo, but usually Seokjin.

Seokjin.

Yoongi squeezed his eyes closed and felt his heart crush under the painful pressure of knowing Seokjin wouldn't love him the way he wanted. Maybe couldn't? Or just didn't want to. Seokjin said they had to wait till March but it was early February and Yoongi felt so fucking alone, so fucking lost and scared. So lost and scared that for the first time in a long time, when Seokjin woke him up he cried out and tried to scramble away. So lost and scared that when Seokjin had reached to keep him from falling off the bed he screamed and cried and kicked, until Seokjins' actual voice managed to get through the noise in his head, cutting through it like lightning.

“Yoongiyah! Yoongiyah it's me, it's hyung, what's wrong?!”

“ _Hyung,_ ” Yoongi felt wretched, felt small and stupid as he clung on to Seokjin and cried like some kind of child. Cried because he was terrified of going back to school, because he hated himself for being so scared, because Seokjin wouldn't _love_ him.

Seokjin rocked him back and forth. Seokjin rocked him, kept him tucked up close to his body even when Yoongi stopped crying, kissed his hairline and rubbed the back of his neck with a tender hand. Seokjin's group was firm and real and it just made Yoongi feel worse.

“Hyung,” he asked, in a moment of weakness he loathed himself for. “Why won't you love me.” He gave himself a pause for breath when Seokjin was silent in response. “Is it, is it because I wa, was stupid enough to get sold somewhere or, or because I was r— _raped_ or, or because I'm ugly and stupid or because I'm—I'm fucking _worthless_ or—”

Yoongi didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Seokjin shifted his position and tucked Yoongi's head into his neck, held him tight and still. “Are you listening, Min Yoongi,” he asked softly. Yoongi hiccuped, nodded, disgusted with himself. “Listen to me. Please. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I love you. It's—it's _illegal_ and stupid but I do love you. I love you so much. You're so much more than what happened to you Yoongiyah, just like me, like Gunwoo and Kisu. I'm... Gunwoo told me what happened at school. Do you want to talk about it, or do you want to wait till tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Yoongi whispered, looking up and making a soft sound to find Seokjin's lips on his own in a soft, perfect kiss. “Please hyung.”

“Not tonight,” Seokjin murmured, littering kisses across Yoongi's face. “Not tonight, Yoongiyah. You need to get some sleep, okay? And so do I. We can talk about it tomorrow, when we're both a little less... Wrung out.”

It occurred to Yoongi that he was being _incredibly_ selfish. He opened his mouth but Seokjin kissed his bottom lip, then the corner of his mouth as he tucked them both back down under the bed. “Go to sleep, Yoongiyah. I'll be here in the morning. I promise.”

Yoongi held out his pinky.

Seokjin, after offering him a smile, hooked his own around it. Yoongi closed his eyes.

~

Seokjin was there in the morning. He was there in the morning, spooned up behind Yoongi and holding on to his younger companion with an arm braced over his waist. Yoongi laid there for as long as he could, ignoring the protest of his bladder and the numbness of his arm until he had to get up. He slid his body out from under the blankets and went to the bathroom—came back to find Seokjin half awake and blinking slowly. He offered a smile and crawled back into the bed—gasping when Seokjin yanked him close, chest-to-chest and mouthed across the cut of his jaw.

“Mm. Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi whispered, smiling and angling his head for a kiss. It was given to him and he sighed, opened his mouth to offer his tongue and the sound of a moan soft at the back of his throat. He felt Seokjin's hands slide up his back to press against his shoulder blades, further up to tangle in his hair and pull his head back so his lips could drag over Yoongi's _extremely_ sensitive neck. “Ah hyung, mm.”

“I like it when you call me that,” Seokjin murmured, his voice low and hard and beautiful. Yoongi felt his spine shudder violently, felt his legs part a little further over the width of Seokjin's hips. “I almost like it more than my name, Yoongiyah.”

Yoongi made a truly _embarrassing_ sound, jerking his weight when Seokjin's lips traced over his ear, dropping his name against it. _Yoongiyah._ The term of endearment hadn't been much when he lived in Daegu. It was something his mother called him before he'd made the mistake of coming out to her, something the girls he'd tried to date had called him. But when Seokjin said it, it sounded like being important, being cared for, being loved.

Distantly, he felt Seokjin letting go of his hair. He dropped his head and buried it in Seokjin's neck, fisted his hands in the sheets to either side of those broad shoulders. He moaned when Seokjin's hands cupped around his backside, squeezed and pulled his body up to push their groins together. Even fully clothed, even under the heat of the blankets, Seokjin's touch burned more than anything—his hands moving up, sliding down the back of the pajama bottoms. His lips on Yoongi's neck, nosing down towards his shoulder.

“Sit up,” Seokjin murmured. Yoongi did as he was asked, pushing up and supporting his weight on his arms when Seokjin's fingers grabbed either side of the buttoned pajama shirt and yanked, ripping it open, exposing his bare chest as the sound of plastic hitting hardwood _tinked_ across the room.

“Hyung,” Yoongi gasped, yelping out when Seokjin shifted under him and pushed him backwards onto the bed. He landed sprawled, his thighs spread on either side of Seokjin's hips, his backside and thighs on top of his older lovers' folded legs while Seokjin's hands smoothed up his chest, dragged his blunt nails down his skin. Yoongi's eyes rolled back and he bit into his lip, trying not to grin. “Ah hyung, gibun joa, jogeumman deo, jebal.”

“Mmm?” Seokjin asked, raking his fingernails over the hollows of Yoongi's hips while his thumbs hooked under the waistband. “I don't understand,” he said, and Yoongi whined, wiggled when Seokjin laughed and tugged at his pajamas. Yoongi's arms were still caught in the sleeves of the shirt, hot and tangled but he lifted his hips when Seokjin guided him, moved his legs and moaned in relief when the cloth was pulled away and Seokjin's hand cupped over his cock, heel of his palm bumping against his ballsac. “Say it in English.”

“ _Hyung,_ ” Yoongi complained, hips jerking up when Seokjin wrapped his hand around his length and gave a short stroke, bending down to let his tongue rest against his exposed tip. Foreskin pulled back, Seokjin's tongue was almost too rough for the sensitive skin and he squirmed, trying not to buck up into his mouth no matter how much he wanted to.

“Want me to suck it?” Seokjin asked, and Yoongi's brain struggled to comprehend the English for a moment. “How do I say that in Korean, Yoongiyah. Tell me how to say I want to suck your cock.”

“Na,” he started, biting into his lip and kicking his hips up when Seokjin licked over his shaft, bent to kiss where his thigh met his groin. “Na ni j... Jaji ppalgo sipeo,” he said, flushed with using such derogatory language. God, he did want to do that. Wanted Seokjin to do it to him, too. “Na ni jaji ppalgo sipeo, Seokjin hyung.”

“You have to wait your turn,” Seokjin replied, grinning wickedly as he bent and oh _god,_ his mouth was hot and wet and his lips were pressed into Yoongi's crisp pubic hair, his eyes half-closed as he _sucked._ Oh god, Yoongi arched up away from the bed with a sound that was almost a scream, snapped his hips up and felt Seokjin gag. He tried to gasp out an apology but it was silence when Seokjin pulled up, pushed _down,_ and his hands came up to cup Yoongi's ass and move him, to guide him up into his mouth while his fingertips rubbed against his rim. For a few torturous moments Seokjin had complete control and all Yoongi could do was feel: the strength of his grip, the warm wet of his mouth, the roughness of his tongue.

Then Seokjin set him down and Yoongi whined in protest, clawing his own belly when Seokjin got up onto his knees and reached into his bedstand.

Lubricant.

He was grabbing the bottle of lubricant and Yoongi groaned, struggling to roll onto his hands and knees. “Where do you think you're going?” Seokjin asked, dragging his lips across Yoongi's ass and Yoongi got comfortable, dropped to his elbows and then his shoulders, reaching underneath himself to hold his cheeks apart. “So eager,” he teased, and Yoongi nodded in affirmation: yes, he was eager. He _wanted._ Had wanted for _months._

“You can't suck my dick in that position, Yoongiyah,” Seokjin hummed, even as he slid his fingers between Yoongi's cheeks to press one in. Yoongi got up onto his hands and spread his knees, comfortable with the pressure as he looked up at Seokjin and gave a plaintive whine. “C'mon, babe. Come suck me.” Seokjin was up on his knees with one hand against Yoongi's ass and the other holding the base of his cock. His girth was impressive, the length comfortable as Yoongi stretched, moaned quietly when Seokjin slapped the tip of his dick against Yoongi's lips.

Maybe it was a remnant of what had happened, but somehow being degraded by Seokjin wasn't... Wasn't uncomfortable. Didn't make Yoongi feel worthless but instead left him feeling hot and eager to please. He opened his mouth to suck in his crown, humming as he bobbed his head, choking a bit when a second finger was added to the first. The pressure was still comfortable, the stretch not as painful as it had been in the past. Yoongi could fuck himself comfortably on four fingers but Seokjin's hands were bigger than his, a fact he was reminded of when Seokjin's free fingers slapped into his balls. He squeaked, pulled back to cough before pushing his head back down.

“Feels so good, Yoongiyah,” Seokjin praised, wiggling in a third finger and holding still when Yoongi pulled up to whine, wiggling, squirming and jerking his hips when the digits pressed in so deep, at the perfect angle to make his head spin.

“Hyung,” he panted. “Hyung hyung fuck me please please,” his lips were wet on Seokjin's cock, the soft skin of his tip rubbing over his tongue and chin and he felt disgusting, filthy and perfect while he mouthed another man's cock and clenched his ass around his fingers. It felt good because it was Seokjin. He knew that. “It's enough, it's enough now please, _please._ ”

“On your back,” Seokjin said, and Yoongi moved to do just that—dropped onto his back and opened his legs, watched Seokjin fist lubricant down his cock and bully his thighs open enough to get himself between them. “Yoongiyah,” he said, and Yoongi shivered. “Look at me.”

Yoongi opened his eyes and saw Seokjin smiling down at him. “Help me in,” he said, and Yoongi reached down, felt out Seokjin's tip and guided him to the soft rim of his ass—tilted his hips so the push would be easy, felt himself shiver when Seokjin started to sink in, slow. Every centimeter of his cock made Yoongi feel like he was going to die, every second he closed the distance between their bodies was too long and when he was finally in—when Yoongi felt the press of his pubic hair and balls, when he rolled Yoongi up to push his arms under his shoulders and fist his hands in his hair—then it was perfect. Perfect, with the taste of Seokjin's cock still in his mouth and his thighs wide open, feeling so perfectly _full._

“Hyung,” he whimpered, making a soft noise into Seokjin's mouth when he bent down to kiss him. He grabbed for his shoulders, his hair—he moaned like a cheap whore and didn't care, because Seokjin swallowed the sound and kissed him like he'd always wanted. Slow, deep, wet, just like the way he was fucking into Yoongi's ass. There was no slap of skin, no sharp smack of the headboard to the wall. Just Seokjin's body rolling into Yoongi's and Yoongi bending to accept him, clutching him, clinging on to him for dear life. Yoongi couldn't breathe and he didn't want to. “Hyung,” he gasped out. “I love you.”

Seokjin pushed in and held still and Yoongi felt his heart stop. He trembled beneath Seokjin and cried a little when Seokjin reached to cup his face and smooth his thumb over his tears.

“I love you too, baby,” he promised, and Yoongi's entire body surged electric: arched and squirmed and clenched. “You're mine. All mine, Yoongiyah.”

“Hyung naekkeoya,” Yoongi replied, soft and embarrassingly weepy and inexplicably _happy._ God he was so happy he couldn't stand it, so happy he cried out in something close to joy when Seokjin pulled back enough to fuck into him hard and deep, when Seokjin pulled his hair and brought him into a kiss he was more than glad to return. Seokjin kissed his cheeks and his lips and his neck and when he reached down one hand to their bellies to stroke Yoongi off he didn't have to do much more than grip before Yoongi was coming, almost shouting, body spasming up tight and squirming, fucking himself in the awkward position until Seokjin grunted and pinned him down, holding very still while his cock twitched and pulsed.

Then he rolled them over. Pulled Yoongi on top of him and yanked the blankets up around their shoulders, didn't even bother pulling out while they kissed, slow and sleepy. It occurred to Yoongi that they'd just woken up—that they really should get out of bed, start the rest of their day, but why?

Why, when they could lay right here and bask in one another, when they could stay right where they were and feel... Perfect?

“Hyung,” he murmured.

“Yoongiyah.”

“...m'home.”

(something in seokjin's chest squeezed tight and released: a pressure, finally let go.)

“...Welcome home.”

 


End file.
